


Turn Back the Hands of Time

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Barisi Thru Time (Fics Spanning 1960s-1980s) [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: 1970s, 70s cheese, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad Sex, Banter, Boundaries, Case Fic, Communication Failure, Confrontations, Crime Fighting, Dogs, Drugs, Emotional Constipation, Facials, Family Feels, Getting Back Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Mustaches, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Pubic Hair, Reconciliation, Secret Relationship, Sequel, Sexual Tension, Sonny cooks dinner, Sonny trips balls while Barba looks on in horror, Sonny's Mustache gets to live this time, Veterans, Vietnam War, and finally talking it out, crime fic shit, gritty vice squad!AU, it's vice squad so... yeah, kinda? I have no idea how involved it'll get, ptsd-induced impotence, yet another opportunity for me to talk about homeless veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: The year is 1974. Sonny Carisi is thirty-one, and doesn't believe in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Had to change Sonny's age on the summary/in the one line about it because I can't do the math 1974-1943 in my head correctly. Fuck, I'm useless.
> 
> Anyway, here we are again, friends! Prepare for more History Lite than the last fic because hot damn, I know sweet fuck all about the 70s. I'm gonna be grilling my parents a lot. I also know nothing about writing police stuff, so idk why I'm trying this but ehhh. 
> 
> Anyway, if the last one was wholesome!Catholic!angst this'll be gritty!sleazy!angst. I'll warn you now, this will have the kind of crime type violence you expect on a crime show. And it deals with vice squad stuff - basically, I'm trying to reconcile wanting them to help victims in a context without an SVU. So they're in vice, trying to help a hooker out of a bad situation, because it's the 70s, I guess. I don't know. Everything I learned about 70s police work, I learned from Starsky and Hutch. So expect some 70s cheese in this fic. And Sonny with a mustache.
> 
> The title is yet again taken from a song and it's is a great one, by Tyrone Davis circa February, 1970. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-opxZJvIZ0

* * *

Carisi wakes up, sweating and sticky, to the smell of piss that isn’t his own. Sure enough, a quick glance at his work shoes reveals a fading, damp stain.

“God damn it, Paco, you bastard,” he growls, rolling out of bed with a curse. His undershirt sticks to his chest and he has to tug it down awkwardly as he stands and stretches out a kink in his back.

“Where are you, you little pain in the ass?” he calls, and hears the telltale scuttle of dog nails on bathroom tile.

His phone rings when he’s picking the wriggling chihuahua up off the floor. He races across his hellhole of an apartment and jams the phone receiver under his ear just as Paco breaks free and flings himself out of Carisi’s grip.

“Son of a – hey, this is Carisi.”

“Benson. Get down here. We’ve got a situation with Candie. Again.”

_Fuck._

“How critical?”

“You can grab a coffee on the way.”

“Right, I’ll be there.”

He hangs up and sighs, reaching for last-night’s forgotten cup of coffee perched precariously on the chipped countertop of his kitchenette. He’s already taken a sip when something bumps against his lips. Grimly, he looks down, and promptly gags, pouring the rest of the coffee – and the dead cockroach floating therein – into the stained kitchen sink.

“Christ,” he coughs, mopping at his chin with his undershirt. He glances at the clock. No time to shave.

“You better not piss on anythin' else,” he grumbles at the oblivious dog currently trying to have its way with the lampshade he’d knocked over a few weeks back and never picked up. “Damn dog.”

His other shoes are old and worn-out, and they rub his toes in a way that guarantees a blister by the end of the day. He has enough time to slap a fistful of water under each arm and between his legs, throw on some deodorant and stuff himself into his suit, which, thank God, is wrinkle-proof wash-and-wear synthetic. He doesn’t have time to play ‘which food hasn’t been crawled on by an insect recently,’ so he buys a street-vendor’s hotdog of dubious origin, which he shoves into his mouth.

“Hey – hey, man. Y’got mustard on your shirt.”

He stops and turns, and fishes in his pocket for some change.

“Didn’t see you at your usual corner, Chuck.”

The man on the ground shrugs and grins, revealing a mess of teeth bad enough to make Carisi wish he hadn’t just eaten.

“Even I can get around, man.”

He slaps one of the stumps where his legs should be.

“Don’t need legs when you got wings, brother.”

Carisi sighs and nods.

“Sure. Did you go to the VA like I told you? You want me to go with you?”

“You know, birds are smart motherfuckers. Alfred Hitchcock knew that.”

Carisi sighs again.

“Here – try to get some food with this, right? Not just booze and dope this time.”

He gives Chuck a couple of bucks and heads off, the homeless man’s rambling soon lost to the noise of the city.

He makes it to work in good time, all things considered. Benson’s waiting for him when he gets in and she takes in his appearance with a furrowed brow.

“You okay? You look like hell.”

“Found a cockroach in my coffee this mornin',” he nods, smiling the humourless smile of the overworked and underpaid. “And that little shit Paco pissed in my good shoes.”

Benson snorts at that.

“You volunteered to take him.”

“Yeah. Remind me – never again. Next time some dealer feeds a condom of heroin to a dog, we’re lettin’ him stay in an evidence box.”

“You have mustard on your tie.”

“Oh, yeah! I knew somethin’ else fantastic happened to me today.”

Benson smiles at that. Sonny likes that, genuinely likes that – making her smile. God knows, she puts up with enough. In another life, she’d probably be his boss – hell, boss of the whole damn operation. She’s more competent than any cop he’s ever met, and even though she acts tough as nails about it all, he can tell when it gets to her – the daily bullshit, just ‘cause she’s a woman.

“So, Candie’s in trouble again?” he asks. She nods, smile slipping from her face.

“Big trouble, this time. As in ‘bigger than another solicitation arrest’ big.”

Benson briefs him on the way to the interrogation room. Candie’s been in and out of trouble since he met her. A runaway, the girl met some bad men, made some bad choices, and wound up turning tricks to get by. There’s not a hell of a lot either he or Benson can do other than try to talk her into getting some help, but it’s a process that, ultimately, leads nowhere. For a whole slew of reasons, she can’t get out, but their repeated efforts to help her have, at least, earned them some rapport with her and her friends.

Her latest problem may be the worst yet. Apparently, the son of a prominent banker tried his luck with her in the early hours of the morning, only he didn’t want the usual. She put up with a little more ‘rough stuff’ than she might’ve, because he ‘looked rich,’ but when he pulled out a switchblade, she panicked. The chase that ensued led him to slip and fall down a fire escape, whereupon he’d hit his head, and been comatose ever since. His father insisted she made the knife thing up, and as the son wasn’t able to speak for himself, and the weapon hadn’t been located, it was her word against his.

Candie sits at the table, bouncing her leg and picking at the polish on her nails, and looks up when they enter, eyes wide, makeup smudged.

“You gonna help me?” she asks. “Officers, I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You were solicitin’,” Carisi prompts gently. She looks at him, pouting.

“What’s a girl to do if she don’t got a fella to help out? She’s gotta make her way somehow. You wanna be a sugardaddy, detective?”

“Where’d the knife go, Candie – did you see?” Benson asks. She nods.

“Went down a drain! I said so when I got picked up! You go look an’ see!”

“We will be – we’ll have uniform down there searchin’ right now,” Carisi assures her. “Candie, you sure you told us everythin’ the way it happened? I’m tellin’ you now – Homicide could wind up takin’ this if the man’s son never wakes up. You think you’re deep in it now, I’m tellin’ you, Homicide’s not nice like we are. We’re on your side, okay? We want the truth, but you gotta give it to us.”

“He’s crazy, that one – he’s a nut! My friend Estelle showed me what he did to her with that dirty knife of his! I was scared for my life, I wouldn’ta gone with him if I knew he was the one who –”

“Whoa, whoa – what’d he do?” Carisi interrupts.

“He sliced her pussy all up,” Candie blubbers tearfully. “She had a pretty pussy, y’know – like – she took care of herself an’ wasn’t sick or nothin’ an’ he scarred it all over like that.”

She makes a slashing motion with her hand.

“I didn’t know it was him,” she bawls, crying, collapsing in on herself like a house of cards. “I didn’t know it was him!”

“Interview concluded at ten-fifteen,” Benson says when it’s clear Candie's too incoherent to continue, stopping the tape recording. Benson and Carisi leave in uneasy silence. Once they’re in an appropriate location to discuss it, alone by the coffee machine, Carisi brings up the elephant in the room.

“Nobody told us about genital mutilations.”

“It could be they never reported any. These girls don’t trust most cops – hospitals… maybe they couldn’t afford medical care, or their pimp has his own underground doctor.”

“If it’s true, he could be charged for a hell of a lot more than just what he’s facin’ now.”

“If. If we find the knife. You know she’d be torn apart in court, even with it in evidence.”

Carisi nods grimly. Cases like this make his skin crawl. The more he works, the more he meets people who need his help, the more he sees that, in this world, some people can weasel out of just about anything. Pay off a judge. Grease a few palms. Hell, he has his suspicions that more than one of his coworkers is dirty.

Benson, though – she’s a good one. The best. The one person he’s sure he can trust. _At least there’s that,_ as Lisa would say. You had another nightmare, but you didn’t shit the bed again. _At least there’s that._ You’re leaving me, but at least it’s not for another woman. _At least there’s that._

“You believe her?” he asks, tipping a cup of coffee back into his mouth, swishing it around his unbrushed teeth.

“Yeah, I do,” Benson sighs. “It’s going to be a nightmare to prove if we don’t find that knife.”

“We’d better hope it turns up, then,” Carisi sighs, plodding over to his desk and sinking down with a sigh. “God, it’s hot as hell in here.”

“Fan’s broken,” pipes up one of their coworkers, a bald refrigerator of a man named Horton. “My nads are sweatier than –”

“Thanks for that,” Carisi glowers. “Really needed to know.”

He groans and reaches for a cigarette, only to come up empty. Fuck.

“I thought you’d quit smoking,” Benson muses.

“Yeah. I’m a picture of success,” Carisi spits, turning back to the paperwork haphazardly strewn across his desk.

“Cheer up, Carisi. It’s almost your birthday!” Horton calls, jeering. “What are you turning, forty-two?”

“Thirty-two,” Carisi shoots back. “Jackass,” he mutters, loud enough for Benson to hear. She smirks, but stays silent as the grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other notes:
> 
> 1\. Sadly, some people really hide drugs in chihuahuas, and other animals. They don't always live if the condoms come untied or burst, as they OD. Little Paco has lived, but he's lucky. (Also, I own a chihuahua mix, and they're great little pests of dogs so I figured, why not have there be one hanging around?)
> 
> 2\. Chuck is a homeless veteran. Sadly, there are tons of them. Also, sadly, most of the homeless vets today are Vietnam-era guys who got royally fucked up, brought home, and then given virtually no support from anybody. My dad's a Vietnam vet and knows about folks who had literally trash thrown on them, treated like shit for having not dodged the draft or for having volunteered because political support went against the war. Sadly, most people who couldn't dodge were a) not white b) poor so all the folks who dodged did so at the expense of the poor, usually non-white guys who got sent off to Vietnam. There's been some scholarship on this recently and it's an area close to my heart, but the fact is, America treated these guys like shit, and a lot of them are still homeless today. I like to think that if Sonny got his shit together enough to work, he'd still try to help out the vets he'd come across as a cop.
> 
> 3\. Benson is not promoted/higher ranking than Sonny because period-typical sexism, basically. But she's still smarter than 90% of the people there. I can't imagine it must've been easy, being a female cop in the 1970s. Maybe I'm wrong but it sounds like it'd have been one hell of a tough gig. I never written Benson before (so she may be OOC as fuck but I'm tryiNG!) but I couldn't resist seeing her as a badass 70s policewoman. She's also probably the only other canon character who'll show up in this thing. This is History Lite and also kinda Canon Lite, I guess. Mostly it's more long-winded exposition and preamble to get Carisi and Barba to bang.
> 
> 4\. Barba will appear in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Burris Wilson is exactly what Carisi expects from a dope dealer who dabbles with too much of his inventory. Problem is, he goes way beyond grass, right to the hard stuff, and doesn’t care who he sells to. This go ‘round, it’s college students buying LSD, and a plain-clothes officer, who tipped the rest of the Vice Squad off. The dealer smells like a sewer and is about as easy to hold onto as a bag of cats. He begs and he pleads as Carisi marches him over to booking, but the law is clear, he has no chance, and Carisi’s got limited patience.

“You can’t do this to me, man!”

“Shut up.”

“Listen, you know how it is, don’t you? I can see it on you – hell, I can smell it.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Viet-fuckin’-nam – that’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about! You see it same as I do, when you close your eyes – I can tell.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. I sure as _fuck_ don’t use that as an excuse to sell drugs. What good are you doin’ for all those vets your product keeps on the street?”

“Least I’m helpin’ ‘em cope with it!” Wilson barks, eyes wild. “You think you know how it is – you sold out to the Man and now you’re gonna tell me you know shit? You phony bastard – I bet you never served a day in your life! Lyin’ _prick!”_

“Jesus Christ, stop talkin’.”

Once he’s been booked, Carisi walks back to his desk. As often happens with types like Wilson, he leaves feeling slimy, like he needs a shower. He’s in such a sour mood that he damn near crushes Benson, bumping into her in the hall. He doesn’t bother looking up at her or the guy she’s talking to, content to mutter an apology and get somewhere he can open the fresh pack of camels in his pocket and quit quitting smoking.

“Oh, Sonny, I wanted to tell you – this is Rafael Barba. He’s going to be helping us sort out Candie’s case and -”

His ears cut out somewhere in the middle. Carisi’s seen men get shot enough to know that sometimes there’s a moment after the bullet hits you where you just stand there and just stare down at your blood seeping out your chest. He raises his eyes, guts falling out, waiting for death.

Barba looks good. Fuck, he looks great, honestly. Dressed in a suit that probably costs more than Carisi’s entire wardrobe combined, lapels as wide as his damn head, all bold lines and rich tones and class. His face gives nothing away, but his pupils blow out just a fraction. He extends a hand and gives Carisi’s numb one a shake.

“That’s ADA Barba to you,” he says with a tight smile. “It’s… been a while, Carisi.”

His accent is gone. It’s the first thing Carisi notices – he’s schooled his voice into something utterly indistinguishable from any other American’s accent. Benson’s eyes widen as Carisi nods, trying to remember how his throat works.

“Looks like you did well for yourself,” he croaks, “Son of a bitch, man, ADA?”

“Told you I would get there, didn’t I?” Barba says, lips curling tighter still, like a finger on a trigger.

“You two know each other?” Benson interrupts.

“Went to the same high school, believe it or not,” Barba explains lightly, eyes never leaving Carisi. He narrows them a little, waiting to see how the detective plays this out.

“Well… good workin’ with you,” Carisi forces out, and runs for it like a coward, barely managing a “If you’ll excuse me.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s in the men’s room, splashing water on his face and loosening his tie. He takes a look at himself in the mirror and the eyes that stare back at him are terrified. He looks unhinged. He fumbles for a cigarette, but his hands are shaking so much, he drops it in the sink.

“Carisi,” Horton says, emerging noiselessly from the stall and making Carisi jump about sixty feet in the air. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He washes his hands, eyeing his co-worker curiously.

“Yeah… Wilson said some shit that got me… he brought up the war, and I just… needed a minute.”

Horton nods.

“Gotcha. Yep, that can turn a day to shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You were where, again?”

“Huế.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m just – I’ll be cool in a second. Just needed a smoke, is all. Don’t want Liv to know I’m back on the things.”

“Bad enough havin’ a woman tell you what to do when she’s your wife, Carisi,” Horton laughs, shaking his head. “You best put her in her place.”

It takes Carisi ten minutes to get himself together after Horton leaves.

“Hey,” Benson says later. “Been looking for you. Where’d you go?”

“Uh… the john?”

“For fifteen minutes?”

“Hotdog stand I hit on my way to work – I think they’ve been into the cat meat again.”

She makes a face.

“Have you called the Health De–?”

“It’ll be fine,” Carisi shrugs. “Maybe it wasn’t the hotdog. I dunno.”

Benson sniffs him and wrinkles her nose.

“You’ve been smoking.”

“So? A man can smoke if he wants to.”

“I thought you quit.”

“Yeah well… smokin’ helps me relax.”

“S’good to relax when you’re takin’ a dump!” Horton offers from his corner of the room.

“He’s right, for once,” Carisi shrugs. Benson shakes her head.

“Charming. Do you feel well enough to go grab a sandwich, or am I on my own for lunch today?”

“Oh, no, I’m all cleaned out. I’m good.”

“Great,” Benson grimaces, but walks out with Carisi just the same. “Slice of pizza?”

“Slice of pizza sounds good.”

They pick up a slice each from a place around the corner and find a bench to park it on.

“So, what’s with you and Barba?” Benson asks. Carisi takes a minute to answer, chewing the greasy, rubbery cheese for longer than he thinks cheese should take to be chewed.  

“Well, like he said. We knew each other in high school.”

“And?”

“Uhn whuh?”

This cheese is probably some kind of weird polymer. Sure as fuck isn’t cheese.

“I didn’t… maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way but… you seem kind of… _off_ around him. It’s not ‘cause he’s Hispanic, is it?”

This round of cheese ain’t going down. Carisi spits it into his napkin and looks up, horrified.

“I’m not a racist, Liv!”

“Okay! I didn’t think you were, only you seemed so… not yourself.”

Carisi shrugs, picking at the single sheet of not-cheese stretched over his cooling slice.

“Yeah, well. It’s strange, is all. Last time I saw him was before I went to Vietnam, so…”

Benson’s eyes soften and she nods, touching his wrist gently.

“It was a bad time, huh?”

“You watch the news same as everyone else.”

“Yeah, but there’s knowing about something and there’s being there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was a bad time.”

He says it in the tone of voice men use when telling women their feelings have opened up as far as they’re going to go. She shakes her head and sighs.

“You _can_ talk about it, if you want.”

“Sure I can. It’s a free country. That’s what we’re fightin’ for, right?”

“Bitterness doesn’t suit you, you know.”

“Good to know.”

“You have sauce on your mustache.”

“Better there than in my mouth. This pizza tastes like some kind of cardboard you’d find in a dumpster.”

“You speak from experience, I’m sure,” Benson chuckles, tossing the remains of her slice into the trash. Sonny follows suit.

“Hey, I’m a good cook!” he protests. “I know how food’s supposed to taste.”

“Mm… roachy, I think, is the word.”

“Stop that right now.”

“Roaches Parmesan.”

“Stop!”

Benson looks good when she laughs – like she really means it. Her face lights up and it makes Sonny laugh, too. Not much else does. He takes it for what it is and enjoys it with all his being, like it's the most precious thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Dad suggested Sonny'd have done 2 tours. He confirmed to me he did know dudes who were in Vietnam since the 50s, but they were all special ops guys and not marines like Sonny'd have been. So he'd probably have done some relatively safe support type work for his first tour, then re-upped and gone through some shit. The Battle of Huế, in 1968, had a lot of marine presence, and was also known for being the longest/bloodiest battle of the War. Dad says he's gonna bring me over some of his war documentaries and stuff so I can do some more research. Yes, he knows this is for a gay Law & Order fanfic, but apparently he still thinks it's mad cool I'm interested in/writing about/talking to other people about this. My dad's a cool guy.
> 
> 2\. My dad used to know a fast food place in the 70s that often got busted for having cat meat in the tacos. Fun fact.
> 
> 3\. Even in 1974, Barba looks well-dressed as fuck, by the standards of the day, of course.
> 
> 4\. I really like Olivia. So much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some Liv-is-a-good-friend feels. Also some traumatized Carisi.
> 
> F.Y.I., I'm headcannoning him in this as bisexual with a stronger preference for guys, but what attraction he feels towards women has been kind of killed by a) his engagement falling apart b) shit seen in 'nam 3) shit seen working Vice. All in an age where it really wasn't as common or stigma-free to get mental health help, and what there was wasn't all that great.
> 
> Also, song reference! This one's to The Dramatics 'In the Rain' (1972) which is great and which you can see/listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ux8gZuvTVR8
> 
> Also: warnings for war shit, homophobic slurs (self-applied,) internalized self-worth issues from sexuality shit, and the general horrors of seeing what went down in brothels overseas. My dad was a medic and told me a bit about some of the shit he had to treat as a result of said brothels, and just the conditions in general and yeah... not happy places at all. ALSO: Dad also told me about how some guys used to fake being gay to avoid being drafted/get discharged from the army. It was a whole thing, apparently. Honestly, I'm really appreciating the talks I'm having with him because of this fic.

* * *

 

The knock on the door makes Paco go crazy, barking and running in circles. Carisi gets up from the couch to grab him with a scowl, and tugs some shorts up his legs on the way to the door. He opens it a crack, shoulders tense, and relaxes when he sees Benson smiling back at him.

“Interrupting something?” she says with raised eyebrows when she spots the lotion and magazine on his coffee table. He curses and shoves the items roughly under the couch.

“No,” he spits with more bitterness and honesty than he intends. Sympathy crosses her features.

“Still no luck, huh?”

“We don’t have to talk about this. Ever.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Lots of people don’t talk about –”

“What’d he _say,_ Sonny?”

“That there’s nothin’ wrong with me. It’s all,” he gestures vaguely, “in my head.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? It means you can get help.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t wanna get help,” he mutters darkly. He sinks onto the couch and runs a hand over his face, misery in his eyes.

“What’s gotten into you? I’m worried.”

“Ha. Worried. You know, Horton told me he thinks you’re my naggin’ wife.”

“Believe it or not, a woman can care about a man as just a friend. Horton’s an ass.”

“He is,” Carisi admits. “Shit, Olivia, what are you doin’ here?”

“The same thing I always do when I see you starting to veer off the road. I have wine. You have records. We’re going to sit up late and talk about it.”

“What is it with women and wantin’ to make men talk?”

“I don’t want to worry that you’re going to eat a bullet when you get off work, okay? Just… do this for me.”

Carisi sighs, but they both know she’s right, so he lets Benson get the glasses and goes to put a record on. The Dramatics ‘In the Rain’ crackles to life from the turntable by the window. He finds a t-shirt on the floor and pulls it over his head, hot enough without it but not wanting to make Liv stare at his chest all night. He stops off at the bathroom for a hand-wash and to dunk his head under the tap, cold water helping to ground him in the present. He comes back to find Benson sitting on the floor, wine beside her, and settles across from her. Paco comes over, noses at his hand, and he finds himself petting the dog for want of having anything else to do to distract himself.

“Noticed your plant died,” she remarks, pointing to the desiccated remains hanging in a pot suspended from the window frame by some of Gina’s macramé.

“What’s going on with you?” she asks gently, too much like Lisa in that moment. He shuts his eyes tight against the guilt. “What’s making you so upset about the war – you seemed like you were getting better – what’s – what’s your problem with Barba?”

“It’s a _really_ long story, and I’m not sure it needs tellin’.”

“When’s the last time you called your Mom?”

That startles Carisi out of his distress enough to look up.

“Ma? Why?”

“She called _me._ Says it’s been over a month.”

Carisi looks away, uncomfortable, and Benson touches his shoulder.

“Hey… you can trust me. You know that.”

“… I do.”

He means it. He’s earned Olivia’s respect by being one of the few men who doesn’t try to get fresh, doesn’t talk down to her or treat her like a second-class citizen, who actually listens when she needs someone to rant to about sleazebags she’s met, on and off the job. She’s earned his by being sincere. Carisi’s more open with her than he’s been with any woman he’s ever known who hasn’t been family or a girlfriend. She’s closer to him than his sisters are, at this point – so much so that he considers her one of them.

“You’re gonna… you’re gonna think of me different if I tell you,” he says to the inside of his wine glass.

“So, you’re scared?”

Tough love usually works on him. It reminds him of the marines.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’m scared.”

Benson stares at him like he told her he’s dying. He can’t stand it, so he gets up to flip the record over, only once he lifts up the needle, he freezes, just staring down at it, watching it turn.

“Sonny…”

“I haven’t ever fucked a girl.”

It isn’t what he wanted to lead with, but once it’s out, he can’t seem to hold the words back.

“The guys in my unit – they found out I was a virgin when we got overseas and at one point, someone got the bright idea to take me to this whorehouse – it was… it was like walkin’ into hell.”

He stares out the window, grimy glass speckling in the summer rain.

“Found me some girl – God, she was _so young_ , Liv.”

“You didn’t –”

“No! God, no. I turned tail and I ran. Didn’t even try to help her. I couldn’t have – there was no way – but I just… I just ran. And I – I got to thinkin’. What if there’s somethin’ wrong with me?”

“It doesn’t make you a bad person that you didn’t want to have sex with that girl – that’s a _healthy_ response to… that.”

“Yeah, only it wasn’t just her – see, I was s’posed to get married when I got home.”

“To Lisa, I know.”

“Right. She wanted to – when I got back – and I – I couldn’t. Nearly every sexual thought I’d ever had was… tainted by that place – you know as well as I do, the kinda horrors that happen in those sorts of places. It was like the shit we see in Vice but… God, it was worse. I couldn’t handle it.”

“That’s… that’s all normal, Sonny. I know it's hurting you but it’s proof of how good a man you are that you –”

“I said n-nearly. Nearly every thought.”

She stares at him, not understanding, and it hits him that this is it – he has to tell her. He has to tell somebody, and he’s almost giddy with the thought of finally just giving up on trying to keep it to himself.

“Barba and I knew each other in high school. We were close and – and then we weren’t. I got jealous… said some stupid things.”

“I don’t get it. Did you… steal his girlfriend or something?”

That makes Carisi laugh, head thudding forward, sweaty forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window pane.

“His girlfriend kind of stole him from me.”

He can’t turn around, but he doesn’t have to to hear the shocked little noise that Benson makes, there on her floor, as she puts together all the pieces. He regrets that she’ll probably think it’s the only reason he never pushed his luck with her. It isn’t true, but there’s no way she’d know that, not unless he says so, and his tongue weighs a ton.

“Sonny… I had _no idea_ – you were a marine!” she says, and he can practically hear her wince. It's not like her to be tactless - far from it. It's a testament of the fact he's blindsided her. Again he thinks of Lisa - one minute, engaged, the next, abandoned, all by a man too fucked up to tell her why.

“Yeah. Other guys made up that sort of shit so they wouldn’t get drafted. Meanwhile there I am. An American fuckin’ hero.”

He turns and looks away, flinching when she steps up behind him and puts her hand on his back.

“Told you it’d change things,” he says. “That’s why maybe this whole… thing,” (he still struggles to call it impotence) “is good after all. Every girl I see reminds me of the girls I meet on the job – the whore in ‘nam. Every – every guy I see –”

He falters, takes a large gulp of wine.

“I can’t go down that road again.”

Olivia looks at him, concerned.

“I don’t think it’s just a question of ‘not going down that road.’ Sounds like you’ve already gone down it.”

Carisi shakes his head vehemently.

“I’m not bein’ a faggot cop,” he says with finality. “It’ll ruin my life.”

“I don’t really want to say it but… look at your life. What’s exactly worth ruining, here? You can’t keep torturing yourself.”

“I was fine!” Carisi snaps. “Until Rafael _fuckin’_ Barba stuck his nose back in my life I was absolutely fine!”

“So, you had a history with him –”

“No, Liv, I didn’t ‘have a history with him.’ We didn’t trade head jobs under the bleachers – I thought I was _in love_ with him – it’s not… it’s not like I can just pretend he doesn’t know that. Now – he has me by the short-and-curlies. He can ruin my career like that,” Carisi snaps his fingers, “and I know he knows it still bothers me because he could see it in my face. He has this way of seein’ through a person – I don’t fuckin’… shit.”

She stares at him for a long time, thinking.

“Do you really think he’d ruin your career over some… break-up from…  fifteen? Fifteen years ago?”

“No,” Carisi grimaces. “I think he’ll do it because he can – because he was right and he loves bein’ right more than anythin’. He told me he’d go to Harvard, be a lawyer, and he did it. He’s the fuckin’ ADA right now and I told him he’d never make it, and he proved me wrong and that must just _tickle_ him.”

“I can’t say I know him enough to comment,” Benson admits, “but I know you. You don’t fear for your own safety nearly as much as you should – you’re too selfless for your own good. You're not telling me everything.”

“Yeah, well. His career’d be in the shitter, same as mine.”

Something lights up in Benson’s eyes that Carisi recognizes as a detective figuring out how to prove guilt. He cringes and moves to choose another record.

“You’re worried about him.”

“So, what if I am? If he throws me to the wolves, he’ll ruin himself too.”

“No, Sonny, you’re… God, you're not still in lo–”

“Please don’t ask me that question.”

He looks at her, and his eyes have the answer in them she’s looking for. He’s grateful she manages not to look smug.

“Do you… do you want me to stay or to go?” she asks and he drops his head in shame.

“Go. Thanks for the wine – uh… be safe gettin’ home. If you want to call a cab, go ahead. I really just want some time to… uh… time to think, if that’s okay.”

He manages a weak smile.

“Promise I won’t blow my brains out.”

“Okay,” she nods. “You’ll call me if you need anything – even just to talk?”

“I think I’ve done enough talkin’ for… maybe a decade? But… thanks.”

He pushes past the bead curtain Gina made him for Christmas, that serves as an irritating obstacle to his bedroom, and buries himself in his tangled sheets. He hears Benson make her call, and she says goodnight before she goes down to meet the cab. He listens to the city out there, beyond his thin walls. He listens to the soft mechanical noise of the record player he forgot to turn off, and the rubbing sound of Paco dragging his asshole across the floor.

He feels like someone cut his insides out and left him as just skin. _Benson knows, and she doesn’t hate you._ The thought is literally unbelievable. He doesn’t know where to file it – under happy, or absurd, or terrifying. It rattles around in his head and makes him sick. He doesn’t sleep, but maybe that’s a good thing. Knowing his dreams, they’d only make it worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a small Barba-focused exposition-y chapter, wherein he starts out trying to ensure neither of them are liable to do anything stupid, and winds up doing something that may be stupid, amazing, or both...

* * *

Barba isn’t sure what exactly he expected Sonny Carisi would look like, these days, but the sight of him makes his breath catch every time. He's just so _angry,_ eyes like a wild dog, always on alert. Working on the Candie case has Barba at the precinct enough to catch many glimpses of his old friend, and the dissonance is jarring.

Carisi with his blue jeans and his corduroy and wash-and-wear suits. Carisi with his sideburns and mustache that belongs on the face of a strip-club manager. Carisi with his cigarettes and his stiff posture and his simmering hate.

Given everything that happened, everything that’s changed, Barba knows he shouldn’t find that intensity alluring. It’s a sign of someone on the brink of madness if he’s ever seen it, but it draws him in like a moth to a flame nonetheless. He finds himself _hoping_ he’ll run into Carisi, just to see him make his excuses and leave.

What’s stranger even than Carisi himself is Benson, who seems to watch him like a hawk whenever Barba comes near. It’s surreal, like they’re both ghosts of themselves who she’s there to mediate for reasons he doesn’t fully understand.

Barba’s curious – always has been. It’s gotten him into trouble before, and probably will in the future, but it’s also made him a great student and a better lawyer. He can’t leave well enough alone, even when he probably should.

He decides he can’t abide it any longer when word comes in that Candie’s alleged attacker died of his injuries, meaning the case is being transferred to Homicide. He’s going to be at the precinct anyway – might as well see if he can catch Carisi’s attention and try to figure out if he’s going to behave – and how much Benson knows, if anything.

Maybe, selfishly, he misses the sound of Carisi's voice.

He waits around, feeling immeasurably foolish, when he knows Carisi will finish work for the day – provided he doesn’t do something inconvenient like stay for overtime. Sure enough, he and Benson clock out at the expected hour, and it’s all too easy to bump into them in the hall.

“Barba! What are you doing here?” Benson asks, confused. “I thought you’d moved on to work with Homicide on this one.”

“I have. I just wanted to assure you both, I’m going to make getting justice for these girls a priority. You’ll keep me posted on what you dig up on the deceased, vis-à-vis those genital mutilation rumors?”

“O-of course,” Benson furrows her brow. “Sorry, we were just on our way to grab a drink –”

“Great – I’m free. Let’s talk on the way.”

That’s how Barba finds himself in a tiny policeman’s bar, sticking out like a sore thumb in his ascot and lemon-yellow suit, drinking cheap beer and watching Benson beat some traffic cops at darts. She looks deceptively innocent when she lets her hair loose to fall down past her shoulders. He imagines that, if she switched the uniform for, say, a tunic and skirt, maybe a few daisies braided into her tresses, she’d fit right in with the trouble-making activist ingénues on any number of college campuses. He watches Carisi watch her and wonders if there’s something there, and the stab of jealousy he feels is as unexpected as it is humiliating.

Even broken and savage, Carisi is a thing of beauty. He’s buzzing with energy, like a bomb about to go off, and it’s terrifyingly familiar, the fear his tight posture inspires, the way his fists clench like he's ready to hit something or some _one,_ yet Barba can’t tear his eyes away.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” he ventures. Those feral eyes dart over, searching him for any sort of impropriety. Finding none, Carisi shrugs and takes a long gulp from his beer.

“She’s a good cop,” he says through clenched teeth. “Smarter than those yahoos for a start.”

He gestures with his drink for emphasis at the gaggle of guys making eyes at Benson when she laughs and takes her throw.

“Think of all the wonders Mankind could’ve accomplished if we didn’t spend all our time thinking with our cocks,” Barba says lightly, and doesn’t miss the way Carisi recoils, jaw set, eyes hard.

“She’s worth a hundred of those guys,” he mutters. “God, this place has the shittiest music I’ve ever heard.”

“And what do you listen to, these days? Still a doo-wop man?”

Carisi finishes his beer and sets the sweating bottle on the table with a sigh.

“Mostly soul, these days. R&B. Picked up a taste for it in the service.”

Before Barba can reply, Carisi is up off his seat, dropping a handful of crumpled bills on the bar. He makes his way to Benson and speaks into her ear, and whatever he says has her nodding and gathering her things.

“It’s been a good night,” Benson says, “but we’re both gonna head home.”

“I’m gonna walk her to a cab, so there’s no reason for you to wait up if you have anywhere to be,” Carisi adds.

“My night’s free, actually,” Barba says, and follows them out onto the sidewalk. He catches the look Benson shoots Carisi, but can’t quite work out what it means.

They make some of the most stilted small-talk Barba’s ever experienced until they flag down a cab and Benson reluctantly leaves them alone. Carisi turns to go and Barba stops him, fingertips brushing the elbow patch on the right arm of his jacket.

“I… uh… I know this little place,” he says, heartbeat inexplicably loud in his ears. “It has good food, strong drinks, and it’s open late. Plays music I think you’d like, too.”

Even now, Carisi’s face is an open book, and the expression on his face is so viscerally tortured that Barba truly regrets having made the offer.

 _Be selfish,_ he thinks. _Same as always._

“I’d like to thank you for your service. Drinks on me.”

Carisi laughs and the sound is chilling.

“Have you taken a look around lately? Thank me for my service? You’re a strange one, alright -”

As he says it, he pales, and Barba supposes the memory stings for both of them.

“This place I know,” he says, “they serve paella. Bet it’s better than anything you could scrounge up.”

There it is. The ball’s in Carisi’s court now. He turns to leave – stops – turns back again – then swears, tugging helplessly at his hair. Its funny - Barba still pictures it with enough pomade in it to render it immovable. Product-free and longer now, it looks feather-soft.

“Barba, this is –”

“This is called ‘burying the hatchet.’ And me buying you a warm meal and a drink. That’s it. One-time offer. Take it or leave it.”

He hates the way his voice sounds like he needs the answer to be a yes. Carisi meets his eyes, holds the look, and when he stares him down, something unusual happens. Barba looks away. He’s never seen a human’s eyes hold that much _feeling_ before.

“Fine,” Carisi concedes, and Barba is reminded, perplexingly, of animals being led to slaughter, though he can’t for the life of him decide if it’s he or Carisi who’s holding the axe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels so 70s to me that it hurts. I am way way too inspired by 70s cop shows right now.
> 
> SONGS for you: 
> 
> Jimmy Ruffin's 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQU4sIn96M4
> 
> Luther Ingram's 'If Lovin' You is Wrong, I don't wanna be right'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWAUCVbnDUg
> 
> Donny Hathaway's heartbreaking I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dko6eQl4w2s
> 
> This fic is, at the very least, a cool way for me to introduce people to good songs/get to listen to good songs myself. :)

* * *

The restaurant, if you can call it that, is a little hole-in-the-wall off a side street, postage-stamp small. Carisi sticks out – both as a cop and a white guy in an establishment that seems primarily Afro-Latino with the odd iconoclastic white couple – students, it looks like – thrown in. When the man behind the bar sees Barba, he relaxes and nods to Carisi, pouring Barba a scotch without him having to ask. Barba orders Carisi something in Spanish that turns out to be a very cold beer in a streaky glass. It’s almost certainly served without a license, but Carisi is off duty and finds he doesn’t have the enthusiasm to care. It’s welcome, frosty-cool in his hand – the place, small as it is, is packed with people eating at cramped tables or dancing slow on the chipped linoleum floor, and the air is swelteringly hot, even for summer.

Carisi taps his foot in time with the woman singing with a small live band. Her cover of ‘What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted’ could give Jimmy Ruffin a run for his money, and her honeyed voice eases on the detective’s mind. He must space out for a bit because one minute he’s watching the light reflect off the sequins on her dress, and the next, there’s a plate of food in front of him. Paella. Barba’s a man of his word.

Eating the taste of his first real kiss is a strange experience. Then again, he’s no strange to food-induced memories when even the _smell_ of Kool-Aid reminds him of skimming insects off the top of the stuff in the jungle. Warm Kool-Aid, too. Never cold. Can’t trust the ice over there. One guy in his unit did and he had to be airlifted out to someplace they could properly extract the worms from his colon.

That train of though leads him back to a question he’s been circling, vulture-like, for a while.

“You served, Barba?”

The other man has the decency to blush and avert his eyes.

“Deferral,” he admits softly. “On account of my academic situation.”

“Of course,” Carisi sneers, but feels more tired than vindicated. “College boy, huh?”

“You joined voluntarily,” Barba counters. “Why in God’s name _would_ you?”

“What was I supposed to do – predict the future?”

“You re-upped. I heart Horton talking about it. You went back.”

Motherfucking _Horton._

“Had my reasons,” Carisi answers guardedly. “I’m good at it. M’country needed me.”

He takes a long drink, the sweating glass dripping, condensation running down his wrist, over his fingers. He’s reminded, briefly, of the guy he gave a hand to in some last-ditch effort to get some kind of sexual experience before death, of semen that isn’t his own pooling in his hand. The water’s corpse-cold, which is fitting. That guy’s been corpse-cold for five years.

“You’re different, now,” Barba says. Carisi snorts.

“No shit.”

The woman onstage takes a break from her set, slinking off to lean against the wall and fan herself. Sweat stands out on her dark skin, sparkling under the shifting lighting. Carisi squints his eyes and watches the refracting beams shimmer in the thick air.

“Edie Novak got married, y’know,” Carisi says, mostly to twist the knife, “Before I left. I didn’t see you at the church.”

“I barely knew her. Why would I be there?”

The barman comes over with another scotch for Barba and murmurs something in his ear. Barba shakes his head, a smile playing over his lips.

“What was that about?” Carisi asks, on guard.

“He asked if you’re a narc.”

“What self-respectin’ narc would show up with his badge clipped to his pants where people could see it when his jacket’s open?”

“I said as much. No one knows what to make of you.”

He takes a sip of scotch.

“I don’t, certainly. You’re a hard man to read.”

“What’s to read?”

There’s a man singing now. Carried on his voice, Carisi drifts. The dim lights, the heaviness of alcoholic escape, the music, takes him back to nights on leave. He’s a creature atemporal, floating above the world, above the gentle lull of Barba’s voice as he speaks. The wood heel of his shoe beats against the floor in time.

_If loving you is wrong I don't wanna be right …  
If being right means being without you I'd rather live a wrong doing life …_

The hum of the electric fan as its breeze stirs the fly paper and the scratch of denim against his legs –

 _Are you wrong to give your love_  
_To a married man_  
_And am I wrong trying to hold on_  
_To the best thing I ever had_  
_If loving you is wrong I don't wanna be right_  
_If loving you is wrong I don't wanna be right …_

Barba’s tongue against his in the station wagon on Lovebird’s Hill and Lisa’s eyes when he said he was leaving –

_I don't wanna, I don't wanna  
I don't wanna never, never, never be right_

The whore, and the hurt in her face when he turned his back and ran –  
The club he helped shut down, where a lady-voiced stranger had beckoned, polished nails on man’s fingers, through a hole in the wall of the john. The stinking, sticky floor Carisi’d stumbled on, drunk and angry, as he squared up and fed his cock through, into a waiting mouth –  
Olivia’s eyes, bright and encouraging and endlessly patient when he told her about Barba –

“Why’d you bring me ‘round here?” he asks, and his tongue is a limp eel nailed to the floor of his mouth.

“Did you hear any of what I just said? I want to know what you intend to do about certain… information.”

“We have the same dirt on each other,” Carisi says, face bloated and swollen like Sawyer’s had been when they found him, bobbing like a rubber duck in a rice paddy, intestines splayed out and dancing in the water. Dancing. Couples are dancing. He takes another swig of his beer. He’d been hitting the bottle hard at the bar with Benson. His head’s swimming, his vision – swimming – just like Sawyer.

Swimming –

“I… does Benson know?”

His eyes are on the woman singer from before. Her figure, her sequins, her afro are doubling and tripling before him. Kaleidoscopes – he had one as a kid and it reminds him of being immortal, being God – tearing reality apart into infinite fractal formations, endlessly, endlessly repeating –

“Anybody wanna sing up here tonight?” the woman purrs, glitter on her skin.

“Carisi – does Benson know?”

“Me,” he slurs, staggering to his feet. “Me, right here.”

The woman looks startled, but she shrugs and stands aside. Barba’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. He’s so drunk he trips stepping up onto the stage, and the woman fans out into four – five – images refracted.

“If I ever leave you... you can say I told you so! And if I ever hurt you baby... you know I hurt myself as well…”

That draws a few eyes, some drunk Italian covering Donny Hathaway, but he doesn’t care. He’s singing for Sawyer in the water, for Jonesy who hanged himself the year he got home, for Chuck and his dope-addicted friends in the gutters, for the guys who pitied the sheltered Staten Island Catholic boy and let him listen to their kind of music, let him get stoned with them, kept him from losing his mind when he saw what evil looked like for the first time –

“Is that any way for a man to carry on? Do you think I want my loved one gone? Said I love you… more than you'll ever know… more than you'll ever know…”

He tries to turn and he sags a little into the woman, who holds him up long enough for him to find his footing. Somewhere in the second verse, tears start to stream down his face, but he feels them only distantly. He’s too drunk to stand. The woman steps up and takes over, easing him off the stage. Hands guide him into a chair. Someone gets him a glass of water. Voices echo in his ears, flickering and fading, dreams on the air.

“Where’d Rafael find him? White boy’s got soul…”

“Think he’s a vet?”

“He’s a cop.”

“My brother’s damn near the same when he gets to drinkin’ – has been since Dak To.”

“Sonny!”

Carisi’s head lolls to the side enough for him to make out the swirling amorphous shape of Barba’s face.

“Barba,” he groans. “Think maybe I had a bit too much to –”

“Is your friend gonna be okay?”

It’s the woman singer, and even now, her voice is soothing. Carisi gravitates towards it, leaning into the sound, which is a golden, dazzling band of energy.

“Did someone slip him something?”

Barba sounds angry. Carisi recoils from him. It’s an ugly sound.

“… be funny… cop and all… wasn’t meant… hurt him…”

“… be fine in… hours… don’t… the cops…”

Carisi’s eyes flutter. Hum. The fan. The buzz in his ears. His blood – heartbeat. Drumbeat. Gunfire –

Barba, an avenging angel –

Then, at last, a blissful spell of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not for Sonny - he will be fine - well. As fine as he's been, anyway. He's just run afoul of some college student's idea of a prank.
> 
> I headcanon Barba as having gotten deferrals for academic reasons. If you're curious/confused about it - basically there's many reasons you couldn't be drafted, some legit and some not so legit. Academics was one way to potentially get around the draft.
> 
> I headcanon Carisi as wearing wood-soled brown leather shoes with a defined heel. Not platforms, nothing so impractical on the job, but defined enough to stand out a bit.
> 
> Re: Kool-Aid - my dad's always told me about how nasty the Kool-Aid in Vietnam was on account of the sugar content attracting TONS of insects into it. And you really couldn't trust the ice, for various health reasons. Or the local food, a lot of the time. Which meant relying on the Kool-Aid, and skimming the bugs off/out.
> 
> Also: re: listening to soul and getting stoned in Vietnam - my dad (wonderful source that he is) was friends with a lot of black guys in the army who let him listen to music he'd not have been (probably) allowed to at home, and let him smoke weed with them on account of him being too young to drink. It wasn't always the case for whites and blacks to mix voluntarily like that (my dad was actually asked if he had a problem being bunked in an interracial bunk because of space constraints, which he didn't since race wasn't an issue for him, but they'd ask people before assuming because you could get a real racist having a problem with it who would OPENLY turn down integrated accommodations in those days.)
> 
> Also: yes, at some point mentally fucked up!Carisi got blown through a gloryhole he subsequently got Vice to shut down. He's a decent guy, but also a fucked up guy a the moment. And yes, he did give a fellow serviceman a handjob at one moment in time. But that was all before work stress and trauma (and drinking, probably) made him have trouble getting it up. 
> 
> Dak To: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Dak_To for those who like battles. wikipedia's not the greatest source, but if you're interest, the footnotes usually lead to some pretty great/more reliable stuff. i'll let you do your own research, or not, as your discretion.
> 
> Think that's all the notes for this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is not an ideal way to handle someone's mental illness - let alone someone you haven't known/talked to in 15 years/don't know well anymore. It's kind of a given, but I thought I'd just say that for the record. I know, and you know, that this is not ideal. That said, it's the 70s, it's fanfiction, and Carisi (and Barba, for that matter) have limited understanding of what to do. Fortunately it works out okay in this case but yeah - the tough love thing is not always the best approach IRL/ask a professional/etc. etc.
> 
> Also, I spent way too long looking at 1970s man cave luxury dens to decide what Barba's apartment should look like. I'm actually a fan of a lot of the aesthetic, but damn does it make me wish I had a bearskin rug. Don't have the heart to kill a bear for it though. Maybe some distant rich relative I don't know about yet will die and leave me one in their will...

* * *

Carisi wakes up in a room he’s never seen before. It’s opulent – he’s not a man of means, but he can tell when stuff is worth something. Glossy, wood paneled walls and a burnt orange couch speak to a manly touch, and the various art pieces make him think of a world traveler – everything from tribal masks to ornate swords to a gong in the corner. He looks down, head pounding, and finds a polar bear staring at him, beady glass eyes looking up from the rug.

It takes some doing for him to get to his feet, and he finds, in the process, that his badge is gone, and his shirt and jacket, too. He untangles his bare arms from the afghan draped over him and hobbles to the nearest wall. He palms himself along until he gets to the doorway, feeling in his pockets for the personal knife he keeps there, against regulation, and flips it open.

He rounds the corner, brandishing his weapon, and finds himself alone.

He’s in a kitchen, just as modern and expensive-looking as the rest of the lavish apartment. There’s a note on the fridge, and he has to read it four times before the words sink in.

 _Had to drop some files off at work. You’ve been drugged – college kid’s idea of a joke. (Got his information if you want to press charges, though I’d prefer if you didn’t shut my favorite eatery down in the process.)_  
_Doctor’s come and gone – you’re okay, more or less. Drink some water and rest._  
_Called Benson. Says she’s ‘got Paco,’ whatever that means. Said she’d find a way to cover for your absence._  
_You vomited on your shirt. It’s hanging in the window, drying – I had it washed. Feel free to borrow one of mine from the second dresser drawer ( not first!!!)_  
_Your jacket and badge are on the leather chair in the living room._  
_If you feel up to food, there’s shredded wheat in the pantry. Doc says take it easy for a while._

_Be back soon.  
\- Rafael_

Numbly, the detective folds up his knife and slips it back into his pocket.

For want of anything else to do, Carisi fixes himself a bowl of shredded wheat and a cup of coffee, foregoing water in favor of a quick pick-me-up. The caffeine has the negative effect of making his head hurt even more than it already does, but he does feel more alert, so he considers it a fair trade overall.

The forbidden first drawer in the bedroom dresser contains shirts, it turns out, same as the second drawer. To the best of Carisi’s knowledge, the only difference is the quality. He can’t help but chuckle darkly at that. _Good old Barba – always willing to give you the (second-best) shirt off his back._

Once he’s dressed and fed, Carisi finds himself with nothing to do. He contents himself with looking around the apartment and trying to guess how many months’ salary he’d have to spend to buy this or that piece of art, and compare that to what he thinks it _should_ be worth. He’s squinting at a weirdly shaped rock anchored to a metal base when Barba’s key turns in the lock and the lawyer comes in calling for him.

“Oh! There you are,” he says, turning the corner. “Good. I take it you’re feeling better.”

Carisi grunts in response. He gestures at the rock.

“The fuck is this?”

“It’s a rock.”

“Why’s it art?”

“Because people are willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money to put it in their den? I don’t know. It came with the apartment. Most of this stuff did.”

“The gong?”

“No, that one’s mine. A gift from a friend.”

“Swords?”

“Souvenir from a colleague’s trip abroad.”

Carisi shakes his head.

“Do you own anythin’ actually made in America?”

He mostly says it to get a rise out of the ADA, but Barba looks unexpectedly pensive in response to the question.

“I do, actually.”

He retreats into his bedroom and returns with something that Carisi hasn’t seen in over a decade.

It’s his old baseball glove – unmistakably his, as he’d written his initials on it – D. C. Jr. and underneath them, S O N N Y. He blinks, uncertain, and stares at Barba, waiting for an explanation.

“You… you left it behind,” he offers haltingly. “The day we had that fight, and I – I couldn’t just leave it in the lot. Someone would’ve taken it.”

Carisi nods. All these years, he’d thought someone _had_ taken it – he had gone back and looked the next day to no avail. He reaches out and takes it in his hand, feeling the weight of it, tracing the familiar stitching, the leather molded to fit just him from years of use.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how things went,” Barba admits, the words sounding awkward on his lips. Carisi doubts he apologizes much. It’s strange to imagine him doing so now over something like this.

“Why?” he scowls, eyes glued to the glove. “You got what you wanted.”

“I got some of what I wanted, at the price of the rest – I wish we could at least have remained friends.”

Carisi bristles at that, raising his head to glower.

“You started it – all that business with Edie Novak – nobody took that girl out unless they wanted to score. Everybody knew it.”

He doesn’t bother to hide his fury. Barba blushes but holds his gaze.

“I wanted to make sure we understood each other. My ambitions have always been important to me – you’ve known that since we met.”

“So? Your ambitions are realized and then some – why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Because I don’t want you to think that you _weren’t_ important. You were – you _are,_ Sonny –”

“Carisi.”

 _“Sonny._ You were… you were the first person who looked at me and saw potential… promise – I told you things I’ve never told anyone about my – about my father. About myself. I’ve never forgotten that.”

It’s too much. Carisi sits down on the couch and lays his head against the cool leather of his glove, held in both his hands.

“You’re about fifteen years too late,” he forces out. “Anythin’ you wanna say now – just – just save it, alright?”

“I… I can’t. I’ll admit, it wasn’t my intention when I asked you to dinner but seeing you with that drug in your system just… I couldn’t deny that I still… care about you. Worry about you.”

“You wanna be in the papers? ADA and NYPD cop – couple’a queers – that your idea of fixin’ things?”

“No,” Barba answers quickly, eyes widening in alarm. “My reputation is still my top priority – yours as well.”

“So, what, you want me to roll over and let you have your way in secret, is that it? Go ahead, I won’t stop you – if that’s what it takes to get you off my back, so be it. I’ll pay up.”

“That’s not what –”

“Oh, you want me to fuck you, is that it? Yeah, you would – show you how a real man does it – a bit of the rough stuff, maybe spit in your face or have you when you’re too sick to move – pin you down and make you bleed from it – maybe that’s what you’ve been after all along – someone who’ll fuck the foreigner outta you –”

Carisi looks sick as he says it, and recoils, blanching, shaking his head as he jumps up off the couch, pulling at his hair and pacing. He riles himself up as he speaks, eyes rolling in his head, desperately searching for an escape, but Barba’s between him and the only exit.

“See – this – this isn’t good for me. This is the kind of stuff that made Jonesy hang himself – this is the _poison,_ right here – I’m not a dope fiend, but every man’s got his breakin’ point – a way to tear himself apart and you’re it – you keep on this path, keep pushin’ at me, and I’m gonna lose it, I swear, I’m gonna –”

“No, you’re not,” Barba says, an edge to his voice. He steps forward, grabs Carisi by the shoulders and forces him to stand still.

"Now, I'm a man who tends to get what he wants -"

"Then take it!" Carisi’s voice breaks when he shouts, spit flecking his lips as he struggles, red-faced, eyes streaming, “just fuckin’ take it! Get it over with!”

"I don’t want that,” Barba retorts venomously. “What I want is for you to take care of yourself! You need to find a way out of this mess you're living in -"

"I can't –"

"Look at yourself! You’re spiraling out of control and those people out there can't all protect themselves. You took them on when you agreed to wear this badge - this is what that means. You need to grow up fast and hard and you need to learn not to feel the things that hold you back."

“What, like you did? So I can be some – some unfeelin’ son of a bitch with no heart who sells his soul for a bearskin rug and a law degree?”

“Sure – if that’s really all you think of me, then sure! At least I took my pain and made something with it – my God, Sonny, at the rate you’re going, you’re gonna kill yourself!”

“Nooo,” Sonny pulls away, keening, curling in on himself as he sinks against the wall. “You don’t get to tell me how to live like you know it – fuckin’ college boy – you shirked your duty – you –”

“Calm down, you’re going to make yourself sick, you –”

"So what? I’m sick either way – what you’re askin’ – it’s gonna crush me – God damn it, I'm not strong enough to –"

"You will be.”

Barba changes tactics as he crowds in close, voice low and gentle. He grabs for Sonny’s jaw and turns his head, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Hey – hey! Look at me – you're reaching out now because you know you can't keep running. When your legs give out you'll need somebody there. Benson, me, your family –"

"Don’t bring them into this,” Carisi spits, shoving him back.

"They love you – that’s not a crime!"

"The person they _love_ is dead in a dugout somewhere. Maybe gone crazy in a prison camp. The Sonny Carisi they want is dead - his body just hasn't caught up yet."

"So _that's_ your plan? Catch up by way of what, suicide? Drinking yourself to death like a coward? What happened to being a marine – what happened to _semper fi_ and all that –"

"Why do you _care?"_

Barba crosses his arms over his chest, stubborn in his frustration.

"You'll go to hell, for one thing. That used to mean something to you."

Sonny reacts violently, punching the panelled wall hard enough to split his knuckles, reeling like a boxer after one too many blows to the head.

"Don’t you get it? You stupid fuck – I'm already goin’ t’ hell! I _killed_ people - I'm the reason people aren't goin’ home to their families - and for what? To come back a-an’ be told what a monster I am? To have people spit in my face for not abandonin’ my country and runnin’ off to Canada or somethin’? Why the fuck were we _there_ in the first place?"

His voice catches. Barba steps forward the exact moment the grief catches up with him and his knees buckle. Arms support him, easing him gently down onto the floor, wrapping around him, hugging him tight.

“Shh… come on, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay… come on now – relax, won’t you? Just relax…”

Barba murmurs nonsense in his ear, rocks him like a baby through the worst of it. It’s all Carisi can do to cling to him and sob – the kind of full-body weeping that makes your ribs hurt and takes all the fight out of you. Barba is warm and smells good – sandalwood and black coffee and cedar. Carisi drools and hiccups into the fabric of his suit, shakes and whimpers and tries to burrow into his skin like a parasite looking for a host.

His knuckles sting. Unthinking, he presses a kiss to Barba’s throat, another, laves with his tongue and whimpers against the rasp of his jawline. He hasn’t shaved – Barba’s not the type to forget, to sacrifice such things, and the only explanation Carisi can think of is that he was distracted out of _concern_ and the fetal stirrings of hope in his chest nauseate him.

“Please,” he groans, “please…”

He fumbles with Barba’s hands, tries to shove one between his legs, but Barba shakes his head, catching his wrists and holding him still.

“Calm down,” he repeats. “You’re going to hyperventilate. Just cry, Sonny. Just cry, I’ve got you.”

“Kiss me, please – fuck me – fuckin’ help me,” he moans, desperate, and Barba obliges him just once, lips opening against his mouth. He swallows his sobs, and some of the anguish too, and then pulls back to nuzzle and hum tunelessly into Carisi’s neck.

Time fizzles out again. Barba is a warm rock. Carisi holds tight – he can do that much. His body, eventually, gives out entirely, too weak even to grieve, and he goes limp and pliant in the other man’s arms. Rather than leave or turn to go, Barba gently eases him onto his hands and knees and shuffles him over to the bearskin rug, settling down beside him and gathering him up in a full-body hug. He croons and murmurs – some sort of children’s tune – a lullaby that Carisi can’t recognize or understand. The melody envelops him, and he mumbles incoherently, still trying to bury himself under Barba’s skin, hot forehead butting against his shoulder.

“Just sleep it through. You’re still a little doped up, I think…”

“Suit – I… drool on your suit,” he yawns, a note of distress in his voice. His eyelids flutter in subdued alarm.

“That’s why the good Lord gave us dry cleaners – shh – just shut your eyes…”

“Not gonna… not gonna leave me, are you?”

“I’m not gonna leave you. If you get sick again I’ll call the doctor but otherwise I’m staying right here.”

“You're supposed… to be aah - an asshole,” Carisi slurs, yawning again.

“I know – I’m taking a day off.”

It’s not much of a cover. A pretty poor attempt at deception, really. Under normal circumstances, Carisi’d never let it past him. As it is, exhaustion holds his head underwater until his lungs are full and he has no choice but to huddle close to Barba’s chest and sleep. In the moment, he’s too worn out to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The treatment vets received coming back got downright cruel sometimes. Anti-war politics and a lack of popular support made even well-adjusted servicemen and women feel undervalued. For someone in Sonny's shoes it would not be good, to say the least.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some languid 70s porn to go with your 70s cheese.
> 
> Again - not everyone's mental health issues benefit from taking the edge off like this. Sonny's head's a bit clearer now he's calmed down, but he's not * healed * or anything - he has a long road of recovery ahead. At least now he's going forward with another person in his corner.
> 
> Also: This contains a lot of porn. I spent all day writing it so much so that I didn't go out and buy an ottoman I was debating buying - because I wanted to stay home and write porn. I tried to make it feel the literary equivalent of classic 70s pornos - kind of cheesy, kind of over the top, with lots of men being dudes and pubic hair. because damn it, if i can't write about that stuff in this AU, when will I ever get to write it.
> 
> Also: while there is a post-coital song, there is no song for the sex. I recommend you find the cheesiest 70s porn music you can find and listen to that - such as this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18ljLPZEfjs  
> I suggest reading it through with no music first for the feels, then again with music for the lulz. Because come on, that's how this fic would play out. Spontaneously just having this soundtrack start up. X'D (The best part is the fucking Ron Jeremy one liners stuck throughout the tracks - I fucking cannOT. Finding that youtube link alone was worth me writing this fic.)
> 
> Okay, I'll shut up. Onwards, to fuckville.
> 
> Oh, wait. Forgot to add. Beers used to have pull-tabs. Fun, huh?

* * *

Carisi wakes up with fur in his nose. He sneezes, rolling onto his side, and peers up at Barba, who is sitting on the burnt orange couch, shirt-sleeves rolled up, a manila folder balanced on his knee. He doesn’t look up when he hears Carisi stirring, speaking down at his notes.

“If you’re hungry, I have a can of soup somewhere around the place.”

“I’m alright… thanks.”

It’s quiet – Carisi has no idea what time it is because the curtains are drawn. A clock ticks somewhere in the vicinity, and the trickling of an indoor fountain reminds him of his need to relieve himself.

“Where’s the john?”

“Down the hall and to the right.”

Barba’s distracted, work laid out before him, a case on his mind. Candie’s case? Carisi spares a thought for her, shaking his head as he pads his way into the hallway.

When he gets back, Barba hasn’t moved. Carisi lets his eyes pick over him – barefoot, hair mussed, stubble. He looks unkempt, tired, but not distressed.

“Are you going to stand there staring all night, or would you like to talk?”

He says it with a sardonic edge that proves he’s as leery of that possibility as Carisi is.

“Guess we can’t just handle this by ignorin’ it, huh?” the detective ventures weakly, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans.

“Not really.”

Barba sighs and sets his folder aside, leaning back on the couch. His collar’s unbuttoned and Carisi can see the faint hint of chest hair trailing just out of view. He wants to follow it with his mouth, and the realization is gutting.

They stare in silence, breathing in sync. Carisi’s jeans are tight enough that they can’t hide the way he’s hardening, just from the faint possibility of a physical understanding. His cock is a thick ridge, trapped, straining, against his thigh, and he is as stunned by the functioning arousal as he is by the sound Barba wrangles out of him, choked and wanting, when his eyes settle on that length, pupils blowing out wide.

Slowly, with the careful movements of a man dismantling a bomb, Barba swallows, hand curling useless at his hip, and lets his legs fall open an extra inch. Just as hesitant, Carisi takes one heavy step forward, then another. His legs feel weighted down with iron chains, and the effort it takes to cross over to the couch has him shaking.

“We should discuss this –” Barba breathes, tongue moistening his lips. “Before we do something we regret – we should –”

“I don’t need more talkin’ right now,” Carisi growls out.

“We’ll have to talk eventually.”

“Look I haven’t – I can’t normally – I’ll talk all you want after, Rafael, just lemme –”

At the sound of his Christian name rolling off the detective’s tongue, Barba groans and leans forward, cheek pressed against the flat warmth of Carisi’s abdomen.

“Rafael,” he echoes again. “Come on… please.”

His fingers tangle in Barba’s hair, tightening enough to sting, and Barba moves with it, turning his head to suck at the pulse point on his wrist.

“Fuck…”

Carisi looks down in disbelief as Barba catches his fingers in his mouth and sucks them deep, right to the back of his throat. He prods the ‘v’ between the digits with his tongue, eyes rolling up to meet Sonny’s, so full of heat the color in them’s gone. Jet black and burning, he stares Carisi down, stretching his lips to accommodate his thumb.

They’re moving at a snail’s pace – anything fast seems wrong, seems like it’ll fracture whatever strange truce they’ve built for themselves. With his free hand, Carisi feels up his own chest, pushing his borrowed shirt up and out of the way as best he can without unbuttoning it, thumbing at the tight bud of his nipple. He moans deep in his chest and the rumble makes Barba whimper.

Dazed, Carisi pulls his fingers back, tracing them over Barba’s lips, dragging cooling trails of saliva over his cheeks and chin. He drops away just long enough to open up his jeans. Barba’s eyes go wide at the sight of him, his natural tawny bush and the bare length of his cock. Truth be told, Carisi rarely goes commando – wouldn’t have this time, had Paco not chewed up his last pair of good shorts. Still, the visual seems to be an unintended aphrodisiac, as Barba nuzzles greedily at that thatch of hair for a full minute before he deigns to lick his way along the shaft.

“Oh, Christ…”

Carisi's voice, broken and blaspheming, pours loosely from his throat. Head tilted back, Adam’s apple bobbing, open-mouthed, panting. He palms at his own pectorals, digs his nails into his heaving chest, grips the back of Barba’s head and thrusts in deep, fully expecting the ADA to gag but he doesn’t – he follows the motion and takes it like he’s wanted it – been ready – for years.

Hell, in a manner of speaking, he has.

Carisi dares to look down and what he sees could rival a solar eclipse or the whole Grand Canyon. Barba’s tenting his suit pants, hips shifting against the empty air, both hands occupied, thumbs flush against Carisi’s hip bones. Barba pulls back, eyes shut, and simply breathes, shuddery, against his scrotum. Carisi thrusts shallowly against the whole length of his face, rubbing off against his cheek, his chin. It isn’t nearly enough to get him to finish, but it keeps him going on a low simmer, and more importantly, it leaves Barba’s mouth free to talk.

“I’ve wanted to suck your cock since I was nineteen,” he murmurs into the sensitive flesh of Carisi’s balls. “I’ve had this on my mind for so long I – I never thought I’d get the chance.”

“I thought you hated it – us.”

“I had to – I didn’t want to. Almost killed me, driving you away like that.”

Barba’s confession is a tickling caress, stirring the wiry curls that brush his face.

“I’m hard-hearted sometimes, I’ll admit that, but – the heart’s still _there._ Some of us don’t have the luxury of wearing ours on our sleeves.”

He slips a hand around to grab at Carisi’s ass, squeezing his right cheek for emphasis.

“I’m still human.”

“I know. I didn’t mean it – sayin’ those things, I –”

“We both said things we regret.”

He slaps Carisi’s cock against his lower lip, mouthing the tip.

“Lemme make it up to you.”

He takes the whole of him, down to the root, and hums like a motor.

“Where’d you – _fuck_ – where’d you learn to suck cock like that?”

Barba pulls off again, jacking him with his hand.

“What do you think we did for fun in college?” he laughs breathlessly, and Carisi can’t help but laugh along. “It was that or smoke dope, and you never knew when that can come back to bite you, so…”

“Be pretty bad luck, gettin’ busted, huh?”

“Mm… exactly. Especially being… friends with a Vice detective.”

“We friends, Raf?”

“Do you not want to be?”

It’s an honest question, asked neutrally.

“I _want_ to get off. I’m so pent up I could burst –”

“So, do it. Come on.”

“What, on your face?”

“Unless you’d rather I swallow. The choice is yours.”

Barba proves his point by fluttering his eyes shut, lashes casting shadows, lips pursed. Carisi doesn’t need more than that. His orgasm hits hard – it’s been too long, and the slow pace of Barba’s hand milks the pleasure out of him, pulse after pulse. It feels like it lasts minutes. It’s the longest orgasm he’s ever had – not the kind to sucker punch you, but the kind to sap the strength from you in waves. He leaves his mark on Barba’s forehead, cheek, the bridge of his nose, his lips, and Barba lets him piston his hips through the aftershocks, rubbing his mess around with the tip of his cock until he’s hypersensitive and soft and collapsing with exhaustion.

He flops down on the couch and reaches clumsily for Barba’s belt, but Rafael pushes him off.

“Here, let me.”

He gets himself out, hard enough to be painful, purple with arousal and wet at the tip.

“I won’t need much. Just your hand would be – ah –”

The smooth glide of Barba’s leaking cock in his fist is nothing like the stuff he had in the service, where he’d been wired, sleepless and terrified, jacking off a man he barely knew. Barba’s been in his life – on his mind, since he was a wide-eyed coltish kid of seventeen. It’s hard to reconcile the old days with life as it is now, but he can imagine, feeling the blood-hot weight against his palm, that they’re sitting, hip to hip, crowded on his single childhood bed, necking and petting and trying to keep it down. He’d never have had the courage, then.

“Hey, you with me? Don’t get lost in your head.”

Barba’s voice is hoarse – not surprising, given the workout his throat just got. Carisi doesn’t know how he’ll forget it – doesn’t know how he won’t think of that breathless tone next time they meet at work. It’s dangerous – Barba’s dangerous – dangerous and beautiful as a viper.

“Kiss me, Sonny.”

Carisi lets himself, heedless of the way his nose is bent an awkward angle, of the way his own semen is clumping up his mustache. He feels the little cry that signifies that Barba’s reached his peak, and laughs against his lips, giddy from weariness and release, as his fingers are bathed in liquid heat.

“Think you got some on your shirt,” he laughs. “Hope it wasn’t from the top drawer.”

“I just knew you’d give me grief about how I store my shirts,” Barba retorts, humor in his eyes, struggling to get his breathing back under his control. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping things tidy.”

As if to prove his point, he fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and sets about cleaning Carisi’s palm. At some point, he gives up on pretense and just holds him, fondly rubbing his fingers.

“Well,” he sighs at last. “I don’t make a habit of doing this in my den, but if I had to make love on the couch in my work wear, I’m glad it was with you.”

The feeling in Carisi’s chest is so alien and strange, he can only shrug.

“Yeah.”

He stares down at his flaccid cock hanging limply out the front of his open jeans. He can’t bring himself to pull his hand away from Barba to button himself up.

“You gonna make me talk now?” he asks, and it comes out warier than he intends it to.

“Not right now. Eventually, yes, but not – not when I have your come on my face.”

Barba hesitates, then sits up a bit, tucking himself gingerly back into his pants.

“I… this doesn’t change what you’re going through – or what I said. I’m still a career man. My job means the world to me.”

“Yeah, well, like you said. People need me out there. ‘specially if someone in the department’s on the take.”

“You think someone’s dirty?”

“Ah – I dunno. Hard to say – I mean, there’s a whole bunch of them who seem a little crooked. Benson’s the only person I trust.”

He stops and laughs in disbelief.

“What are we doin’? Talkin’ about work an’ the credibility of the NYPD – I just came on your face.”

“Hey, if it’s your idea of pillow talk, it works for me,” Barba grins, and gets up from the couch. He leaves – presumably to wash his hands and face – and returns with two beers, pausing to put a record on as he re-enters the room. He tosses Carisi a can, then hesitates, frowning.

“Actually, I’m not sure you’re supposed to be drinking right now.”

“I’ll survive.”

Carisi pulls the tab for emphasis and takes a swig. Barba mirrors his action and pulls a face.

“Pah – this beer’s all head.”

“Yeah, well, you’d know. Did you really spend all your time in college suckin’ cock?”

The lawyer snorts and flops back onto the couch.

“Enough to get good at it. Not enough to get caught. And I passed my exams 100% on merit, before you ask.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“You gonna put him away?” Barba asks, eyeing Carisi’s prick. The detective shrugs.

“Nah. I’m lettin’ him breathe. I gotta ask –”

“Yes?”

“Did you kill a teenage girl and steal her record collection? What in the hell are we listenin’ to right now?”

“What? It’s mellow.”

 _And when we've had a few more days (When we've had a few more days)_  
_I wonder if I'll get to say (Wonder if I'll get to say)_  
_You didn't have to be so nice (Be so nice)_  
_I would have liked you anyway (Would have liked)_

Carisi raises his eyebrows.

“Mellow is right. I’m serious – this came with the apartment, didn’t it?”

“John Sebastian is a talented musician.”

“Sure, sure… just be sure to point out who he is when I find his picture taped to the wall of your bedroom. Wouldn’t wanna mix him up with one of the Beatles or somethin’.”

Barba shakes his head and takes another drink.

“You know… I don’t have the slightest idea how this is going to play out.”

“Welcome to every day of my life. Must drive you nuts, control freak that you are.”

“I’m not denying it.”

Barba hesitates, unsure. His silence stretches on for long enough that Carisi looks over for an explanation.

“I’m glad it… feels easy. I didn’t think it would. The sex – the sex was good, don’t get me wrong – but I didn’t expect I’d feel okay about it afterwards.”

“Figured you’d regret it?”

“Mm. That and I was worried about you. I still am, to be honest. I… didn’t take advantage, did I?”

“I’m the one who asked you to suck me off. I needed it. I mean – I’ve needed it for a while – not from you specifically. Just anyone. That’s the thing about it, though – the war. I was fine for my first tour – well, as fine as… fine enough. Point is, I go a second time around, and suddenly I can’t trust anybody – not Ma, not my sisters – let alone anyone I plan to sleep with. I dumped Lisa as soon as I got back.”

“You trust Benson.”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s so stubborn she won’t leave me alone when I’m goin’ nuts.”

“You… do you trust me? Not just in the sense of a confidant – obviously I’m not about to tell anyone our history.”

“That’d be more like contemporary reportin’ –”

“– and I’m no journalist, right. Seriously. Do you trust me?”

“Trust you enough to let you make me come. Man’s vulnerable at a time like that, y’know. You coulda pulled a knife on me. Hell, I had one in my pocket – I coulda pulled mine on you.”

Barba nods, swishing around a mouthful of sub-par beer thoughtfully.

“I really want you to visit your mother.”

“Jeez, can you not talk about her while I’ve got my dick out?” Carisi grimaces, finally buttoning his pants. He winces at the crusty feeling of his pubes and shudders.

“She worries. She keeps asking the priest for Mass intentions for you.”

“What – really?”

“It’s your mother – you think she wouldn’t?”

“… fair point, I guess.”

“Come home for your birthday, Sonny. Please. I’m not willing to beg – I don’t want to twist your arm if you really don’t want to. You are – always – free and independent, here. I’m not your psychiatrist –”

“I should hope not.”

“But… consider it? Please?”

Carisi scratches his jaw, looking away.

“… okay,” he mumbles. “I’ll… I’ll consider it. I’ll promise you that much. Only somethin’ small, though. I don’t want halfa Staten Island to show up.”

“Again – it’s your mother.”

Carisi huffs at that, but doesn’t go back on his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A song for you: this time it's one of Barba's record collection, albeit a bit of a guilty pleasure I think he'd have picked up in his college years. I will admit - I have a soft spot for The Lovin' Spoonful a mile wide on account of my mom giving me an album of theirs that she accidentally stole from her friend's older brother some time around the early seventies. It's pleasant, catchy stuff (and young John Sebastian always reminds me of Dan Dreiberg for some reason.) (Also you get a bonus Peter Noone introducing them:)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mY8TIcGTEc8
> 
> Also: Mass intentions - for you non Catholics out here (I have no idea if Protestants do this too) we have this thing where you can ask the priest to say the Mass * for * someone i.e. a dead relative, dying/sick person, person's birthday, someone in need, someone who's going through stuff, etc. I feel like PTSD!Carisi would be triggering his Ma to get every priest in New York praying for him if she could.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No song this time and this is probably rusty as hell but I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing. Some of the comments y'all left were really great and I do want to finish this. Still got a lot on my plate but I'm trying to make time when I can. This is just a small little tidbit chapter to get the ball rolling so to speak.

* * *

Sonny explicitly said to keep it small. Even so, he knew his family’s definition of small could be anything from two people to twenty, and the likelihood that he’d be mobbed as soon as he got home was high. It was with that in mind that he asked Benson if she’d like to be there.

“As back-up,” he said sincerely. “Not a date.”

“I know it’s not a date,” she laughed. “You’re not the opportunistic type.”

“I could take offense to that,” Sonny countered. “Just say I’m not sleazy.”

“You look sleazy, though. It’s the mustache.”

“Hey! I’m beginnin’ to regret askin’ you!”

He wasn’t really, and they both knew it. The banter was familiar, like a barrier around them both. It flared up at times like this, when someone’d play grab-ass with Liv in the break-room, when something’d remind Sonny of the war. It was a kind of code between partners, a sort of indirect check-in.

Olivia balled up her napkin and threw it in the trash, wiping invisible flakes of pastry off her clothes as she stood up.

“Of course, I’ll go,” she said kindly.

“You know my Mom’s gonna think we’re an item if you do.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“I know. I love your mom but… wow. It’s not 1952 anymore… I didn’t get this job so that I could 'find a man.' Jesus.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know you know. I wish _other people knew,_ is all I’m saying.”

“Yeah.”

“Not that I don’t think your mom means well, but… God, I just hate it. Sorry - I don't want to unload on you when you've got enough on your plate as it is.”

“No, I get it.”

Sonny finished his own breakfast – a greasy Danish he already regretted – and threw the napkin he’d held it with away. He was sucking sugar off his fingers when he felt eyes on him. Looking across the street, he froze, hand still in his mouth.

“Oh, hey Counselor!” Olivia waved.

Barba looked both ways before daring to cross the street, someone honking in irritation at him regardless.

“Benson, Sonny, hi.”

Sonny fumbled to get his hand out of his mouth and wiped it on his jeans. He felt like a slob.

“Careful, I could nab you for jaywalking,” Olivia remarked. Barba chuckled a bit tensely.

“Wouldn’t that be entrapment? After all, you waved me over first.”

He grinned somewhat awkwardly. There was a weird tension between them – not unexpected, given everything Liv did and didn’t know. _Oh, what you don’t know…_ Sonny thought, and guilt gnawed at him.

He couldn’t say exactly why he hadn’t told her. On some level, he did want her to stop worrying – to know he was… fully functional again. Living his life. Still, he sensed if he did tell her who’d helped him break his dry spell, she’d be worried for a whole host of different reasons – and he couldn’t really blame her for that when he was worrying too. In the midst of a mental tailspin, he didn't notice Barba turn to look at him until the man spoke.

“Say – it’s not every day I see you out of a suit – what’s the occasion?”

“You – out of a – huh?”

“The casual look – jeans and a t-shirt. It’s not your typical workwear.”

_Right. Right he means out of your suit - not - not **out of your suit.**_

“Yeah, well, a four-legged hurricane tore through my apartment and shredded my laundry.”

“A hurricane?”

“Paco’s a chihuahua,” Olivia explained. “He’s… evidence. Well, he was. Someone had fed him some product to… store for later. He produced it a while ago, so we don't strictly need him anymore, but _somebody’s taken a shine to him.”_

“I have not,” Sonny countered. “Just been too damn busy to take him to the pound, is all.”

“Well, I sure hope you muzzle him soon,” Barba replied, “or else learn to keep your laundry basket where he can’t get into it. A plain t-shirt is one thing, but if I see New York’s finest walking around in anything tie-dyed I’ll be morally obligated to outfit him in one of my dress shirts.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be cheap. I’m top drawer and you know it,” Sonny snarked back before realizing what he’d said. Barba’s eyes flashed, unreadable, and he nodded at both cops in turn.

“Have a good morning – Carisi. Benson.”

With that, the ADA was gone. Sonny stared after him, stunned.

“What the hell was that about?” Olivia hissed, poking him in the arm. “Hey – you alive?”

“Huh? What?”

“He called you Sonny – and then – all that stuff about shirts… I thought things were weird between you two.”

“Believe me, things are still weird,” Sonny huffed under his breath.

“Did something happen when you got sick?”

“I didn’t – I didn’t get _sick –_ some yahoo at a bar drugged my rice.”

Olivia stopped walking.

“Wait, seriously? And you didn’t think to tell me – your _partner?”_

“I was kind of too busy seeing fractals behind my eyelids – anyway, Barba had a handle on things. He called you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, to say you ‘overdone it’ and that he’d set you up with a hotel room to sleep it off. I had to put my ass on the line to cover for you at work. Horton was going on and on about how you didn’t look sick when he last saw you –”

“Fuckin’ Horton,” Sonny muttered. “No – look, I didn’t – I’m sorry. I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but you know I don’t know something, or you wouldn’t be acting so off around me now, would you?”

She was shrewd – he’d give her that. _The problem with being friends with detectives..._

“I just… things… I may have… after you caught a cab, I stayed out a bit - we stayed out... kind of... made sure everything was water under the bridge. Wound up taking something by accident - like I said. The rice. Barba let me stay at his place.”

“What? And you …?”

“N-no way!” Sonny denied hastily. “No – God no. It was – he has a huge place. I just threw up in a bucket in the guest room for about ten hours then went home.”

“Huh… I gotta say that’s more charitable than I’d have expected from him.”

She studied him for a long time - long enough to prove she wasn't totally satisfied with his explanation - before finally shaking her head and sighing.

“Well, do you think it’ll help?”

“Help what?”

“Help you work together – help you get a handle on your life?”

“Yeah,” Sonny shrugged. “I guess, I mean – I’m going home for my birthday. There is that.”

Olivia seemed to accept that.

“There is that,” she repeated. They walked the rest of the way back to the precinct in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy-o, I'm a dumbass who switched tenses in the last chapter by mistake. I'll fix that ASAP in an edit. In the meantime, have some awkward family time.
> 
> For what it's worth, the Carisis mean well - they just don't quite know how to handle post-war!Sonny and he's not exactly communicative about his emotional needs so there's a lot of inadvertent discomfort on both sides. (Also, for a Catholic family of that era, Sonny's whole 'moving in with Lisa and then dumping her' thing probably wouldn't have gone over well. It happened in my own family around that time and someone got temporarily disowned over it.) But they're a loving family - they'll survive it.

* * *

Feeling nauseous and anxious in his own house is strange, but then, it doesn’t really feel like his own house, anymore. In a display of great restraint, Sonny’s mother heeds her son’s words, keeps things small. Just the immediate family, plus their significant others and kids, a few cousins, and Olivia and him. In the end it amounts to less than twenty people which, for a Carisi family gathering, makes it record-setting in its smallness. Still, it’s too much, and after a bit of miserable socializing in the front hall, Sonny makes his excuses and escapes into his childhood bedroom. It looks the way it always has – his mother hasn’t changed the decor since he went to Vietnam. It’s like walking into a time capsule, and no matter how many times he’s slept there in the years since he got back, it creeps him out, makes him feel like an imposter, a walking stain of darkness ruining all the innocence he sees tacked up on the walls – posters, pennants… kid stuff.

It’s so loud – he’s reminded of the welcome home party his family threw – precisely why he avoids get-togethers, now. It was close to forty people, that time, all crammed into the living room, talking over each other, and him, sitting in the middle of it, trying to keep his back to the wall, flinching every tome one of his cousins passed him a plate of finger food. It was hell. God knows how he survived it, but he had – pale and gaunt, looking half-dead in the photos in the family album. They’d made him wear his dress uniform – hat and everything. Someone’d popped confetti and he just stood there, speckled with it, face grimacing in some sick parody of a smile. It was the look that people had on them when they died scared – all eye-whites showing and lips drawn back.

His hands are shaking terribly. He balls them up on the bedspread and shuts his eyes.

Even upstairs he can hear the voices – why does everyone have to talk _at the same time?_ It’s like a wall of sound, impenetrable, shrill. He tastes bile in the back of his throat.

_Why’d I let Barba talk me into this? This is fucked._

The night of that party… the night when he’d first got back, he’d raided the pantry and drank two bottles of red wine and spent the night in his closet, shuddering in just a pair of underpants, knees to his chest, knife in hand, with the door cracked. He’s half tempted to get back in it but he remembers his dad asking to store some boxes of Christmas lights in there and he won’t fit unless he unpacks everything. In truth, he doesn’t think he can turn his back to the door long enough to clear the closet out. He just sits, shaking and tense, listening to his sisters fight about what an asshole he’s being, hiding upstairs when his mom put so much effort into making the evening special. Their voices are muddled with the sound of dishes clanking as they wash everything up in the sink. The last of the cousins have gone, kids and husbands back at home for an early night with school and work in the morning. Only the girls remain, and it’s so familiar, just the immediate family, and it’s so painful. Sonny feels like he’s intruding.

The doorknob turns and Sonny has to make a conscious effort not to reach for his sidearm. He isn’t wearing it, of course. Still. Old habits.

“Hey.”

He expected Benson. Even the heavier tread hadn’t convinced him of what, subconsciously, he must’ve realized. There’s no one else with strides that long in the house – it had to have been his old man. Still, he can’t remember his dad ever coming up to check in on him before – that was strictly a mother’s job. His dad would sit by the TV, sometimes with a beer, sometimes with a cigarette, and wait for him to sheepishly appear. Then they’d nod at each other and turn away, watch the game, whatever. It had served them well for all of Sonny’s life, and he sees no reason to change it now.

“Your mother wants to know if you’d like to have tiramisu in your room or downstairs.”

He isn’t meeting Sonny’s eyes – not a surprise, really. They’ve had trouble with that since he got back – eye contact. In the years since Vietnam the girls have gotten better at it, but his father still never quite manages it.

“In a bit,” Sonny says. “Look at me, would you?”

“What for?”

His dad flicks his gaze up, then aside again.

“Look at me in my face – properly.”

He has an edge to his voice he would never normally have used on his pops, but times have changed. The hero worship and awe every young boy feels for his father eroded long ago. Now, Sonny just sees what’s stood before him – a middle-aged, sad-looking guy in an old shirt, hair thinning. He wears glasses… he looks smaller, somehow. In the end, it’s Sonny who has to look away from this observation, and he feels a sad sort of hollowness as he does so.

“I’m uh… I’m sorry if I worried… everybody. I’ve been busy.”

“Hmm.”

There is a long pause. Sonny fidgets. Squirms.

“I know you’re disappointed in me. I’m sorry for that too, I guess.”

“We’re not disappointed.”

At that, Sonny looks up, brow furrowed.

“Right. Says the guy who told me I was makin' a mistake endin' things with Lisa.”

“She was a good girl.”

“Yeah… yeah, that was the problem,” Sonny mutters. “Forget it.”

“No – what exactly do you think we’re mad about? Lisa – look, she was a nice girl. You know, your mother and I just thought… well, when a man and a woman move in together, people assume –”

“People shack up together without tyin' the knot all the time,” Sonny sasses. His dad’s eyes turn steely.

“Be that as it may, you know it was hard for us to accept. But if you wanted to be… unorthodox about it, we gave you space. We let you go. If she wasn’t the girl for you, well, sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan. We liked her well enough, but we understand that.”

Sonny looks away again. His father sighs. He sounds exhausted.

“You’ve always been like this… you’re a dreamer. Left to your own devices you just bob along your way. That’s fine when you’re eighteen, but you’re over thirty – your mother and I aren’t young anymore. We need to know you’ll be okay when it’s our time to go. If you feel pressure, that’s all it is.”

Sonny doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t exactly reassure him everything will be fine.

“I have a good career,” he manages instead.

“Yes, and we’re proud of it. And a good service record too, even if you don’t like us talkin' about it.”

“I got friends.”

“Yes, Miss Oli–”

 _“Officer_ Benson,” Sonny corrects. “And I got a dog now, sort of.”

“There, now, those are all nice things. You could tell them to your mother and it would do her a lot of good.”

Sonny bites his lip.

“I don’t wanna come down,” he says, hating how petulant it makes him sound.

“It’s only us. Give it a try, won’t you? For her sake?”

Sonny can’t deny his mother anything and, grudgingly, he follows his dad downstairs.

The buzz of conversation dies as soon as he appears in the kitchen. One look at his mother tells him she’s been crying, though she’s smiling now, mask up, trying to keep a brave face on. His father clears his throat, prompting him to talk.

“Ma, I heard you made tiramisu?”

She nearly bursts into tears again, nodding vigorously and babbling on and on about how it’s his favourite. He sits numbly down at the table, ignoring his sisters looks of irritation.

“You gonna run out on us without so much as a thank you this time or is that just what you do for the main course?” Bella asks, only to be smacked on the back of the head by their mother’s hand, fast as a whip.

“Apologize to your brother,” she says curtly. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”

“That’s baloney –”

“She’s right, Ma,” Sonny interjects. He feels about a hundred years old. Benson’s foot nudges him under the table – he glances at her, and she nods encouragingly.

“I’ve… I’ve been busy, lately. I’ve had a lot to do for work. Been puttin’ family on the back burner and it’s no fair, me worryin’ you all like that.”

He takes a bite of tiramisu, which he takes time to swallow, letting his thoughts arrange themselves in his head.

“I’m not gonna make promises,” he continues. “Workin’ Vice in a place like New York… there’s no shortage of paperwork pilin’ up on my desk. But I’ll try to at least give you a call if I’m gonna be busy.”

He manages a smile he won’t call easy, but he won’t call forced, either.

The group startles collectively at a sudden knock on the door. His father rises to his feet, frowning.

“Someone forgot something.”

“It’s probably Paula – I think she left her casserole dish here,” Mrs. Carisi replies. Mr. Carisi grunts and makes for the door. When he opens it, he swears softly. He retrieves something, shuts the door and locks it, and returns to the kitchen. He places the item – a gift box, professionally wrapped – on the table.

“Who’s it from, baby?” his mother asks. Sonny turns the tag over and stares at it.

“It’s from – uh – Rafael Barba.”

“God, there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” his father exclaims. “What, are you two on speakin' terms again?”

“He’s been helpful lately with some cases,” Benson interjects. “I think the hatchet’s been buried.”

Sonny unwraps the box. Inside is a shirt – a really nice shirt, at that.

“What’s he buyin’ you shirts for?” Bella interrupts.

“It’s a runnin’ joke sort of thing,” Sonny mumbles, thumbing over the fabric. “He likes to make comments about a detective’s salary.”

“When you’re the ADA I guess that’s small potatoes,” Mr. Carisi concedes. “Well, that’s nice of him.”

“Send him a thank you card,” Mrs. Carisi adds. “Don’t forget, Sonny.”

“I won’t,” he says, still too shocked to look up.

It’s only when he’s back at his apartment, trying to find a corner of his apartment clean enough to keep the shirt in, that a little note falls out from the folds of fabric.

_You’re top drawer, alright. You did well, going to see your folks. I’m proud of you._

_\- R.B._

Sonny’s grateful that the only witness to his flustered reaction is Paco, who simply snorts at him and looks away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back at it again with a song - this time it's Tyrone Davis's 1976 'Turning Point.' Technically, the song didn't come out for two years until after this fic was set but damn it, the song is so good. I had to fudge the timeline a bit to make it work. I HAD TO. Here's the track: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5LXTNvJ38w
> 
> Also in case it's unclear: Sonny's got a Vietnam veteran's baseball cap - think like the one Tom Selleck has in Magnum P.I. for Da Nang (even though that was the '80s.) Or any other number of veteran's hats kicking around. I just tend to think of the Magnum one because I love that show. (In its original form - not the bastardized abomination they've created now.) I love me my classic tv... it's good shit.
> 
> Also: I looked it up and you can, in fact, make chicken parm in like 20 minutes plus prep time, if you don't make all the ingredients yourself. Never tried to do so personally, but I figure it must be possible.
> 
> Also: Barba still likes John Sebastian in this headcanon. So sue me. :')
> 
> Also: (last one I swear) next chapter will have porn because I just finished a massive essay for school and damn it, I deserve to treat myself.

* * *

Rafael isn’t expecting company, not on a weeknight, but when Sonny calls him, asks if he’s free, he says he is.

“You want me to pick up anything?”

“No,” Sonny tells him. “I’ll cook. Call it a thank you for the shirt.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It was a birthday present.”

“Well, I wanna thank you. Now do you want chicken parmesan or don’t you?”

“My kitchen is yours,” the ADA replies, amused.

When he hangs up, he wanders towards the other side of his office, looking through the blinds, watching the city below.

There’s a large part of him that had thought buying the shirt was a bad idea. It’s the same part of him that’s worried, now, about what kind of game he’s playing. The stakes are too high for this to be a casual thing – he can tolerate heartbreak, but Sonny’s fragile. He feels protective whether he ought to or not, and certainly responsible for digging all of this up and making the veteran relive it.

“It’s good for him, though. Tethering him to something real,” he tells himself. Problem is, he has to be that real thing. That requires putting more of himself on show that he feels even remotely comfortable with.

It eats at him all day at work, and by day’s end, he’s sure he should call it off, but he doesn’t. Instead, he changes his clothes three times, settling on a business-casual get-up that wouldn’t be considered dressing down if it was worn by anyone else. He debates opening a file, doing some work. The Candie case is a mess – the girls admit the dead john had been rough with them, though the allegedly slashed genitalia amounted to little more than hearsay and a glorified venereal disease upon further examination. Still, there's enough there to paint the man as a sick fuck, if only he’d been doing it to pretty coeds with clean records. Getting a jury to sympathize with working girls is, unfairly, an uphill battle at the best of times.

Knowing that, there really isn’t much more Rafael can do, besides that which he’s already done as prep. Giving up on the hope of working, he pours himself a glass of scotch and sits on the burnt orange couch and watches the clock.

Sonny arrives at ten minutes to eight, looking frazzled but good all the same. He has a t-shirt on, tucked into a criminally tight pair of jeans, and a ball cap perched on his head.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says in a rush. “Would you believe they were out of tomato sauce?”

“I believe they’d be out of tomato sauce that would meet your absurdly high tomato sauce-standards,” Rafael replies, setting his full glass of scotch aside and ushering Sonny into the house. They migrate to the kitchen, where he watches the detective begin unpacking grocery bags with mild interest.

“Anyway, isn’t it blasphemy if an Italian buys pre-made sauce?”

“Not if he just got off work, it’s not. Here – put this hat on the rack, would you? My hands are full.”

He inclines his head. Rafael plucks the ball cap off of it. He thumbs over the embroidered words, saying nothing. It means something, he thinks, that Sonny’s worn it over here, the name of a battle fought half a world away. It probably falls into the same awkward boundary establishment exercises as buying the birthday shirt had; that doesn’t mean it's an invitation to talk. He hangs it with care on the peg by the door, a strange tightness in his chest.

He notices the record when he stops to retrieve his drink, the cardboard sleeve sitting on the table in the front hall next to Sonny’s jacket.

“You brought a record?” he calls, lifting it up and turning it over to study the back.

“Yeah. Figured you needed to listen to some real music, not that saccharine pop you like.”

“John Sebastian’s not saccharine, doo-wop boy,” Rafael replies, bringing the record over to the turntable for later. He ambles back to the kitchen, scotch in hand. He sips it delicately, content to observe.

“You uh… want me to help with anything?”

Sonny looks up at him and shakes his head.

“Nah, I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I can chop vegetables – I’m not that inept.”

“Okay, if you really feel up to it. Get to it.”

They chit-chat about mundane things as they work, strategically avoiding the important topics. The shirt. The unexpected dinner visit. The sex on the couch.

“How was it?” Rafael finally asks, hating to be the one to cave, but knowing that if he doesn’t they will likely go the whole evening without a real conversation. “Your birthday.”

“Not great,” Sonny replies honestly, sprinkling the last of the cheese over the pan and putting it in the preheated oven. “Not as bad as I thought it would be, though. It reminded me of the dentist’s. Good for you to go there, but you feel uncomfortable the whole time.”

“Hmm.”

Rafael can’t say he doesn’t know what that feels like. There have been many moments in his life thus far when he’s been the odd man out, stuck at some event or other, feeling like he's got a sign around his neck proclaiming ‘scholarship’ or ‘immigrant' while eyes are narrowing at him. It's a different kind of unease, but it tinges the moments with bitterness just the same.

“Liv came with me,” Sonny continues, straightening up now that the food is cooking. He rinses his hands in the sink and dries them on a kitchen towel before turning around, arms folded over his chest. His posture is defensive – tense – but less so than it usually is, which serves both to make Rafael feel oddly tender and to emphasize how uncomfortable Sonny usually looks in public.

“That was nice of her.”

“Yeah, she’s a good friend,” Sonny replies. The silence stretches between them, heavy. Electric. The detective licks his lips involuntarily as the energy shifts.

“I’m gonna… uh… put that record on, if it’s alright by you…?”

“Go ahead,” Rafael replies, mouth dry. He pours himself a glass of water to chase down his scotch while Sonny is away. The music crackles to life – drum beats, then a brief, staccato laugh, before the melody comes swooping in.

 _I've reached the I've reached the turning point in my life  
I've reached the turning point lord lord lord in my life  
_  
_I used to stay out all night long_  
_Used to do a whole lot of wrong_  
 _And I don't know where I would end up_  
 _If that sweet thing hadn't come a long_  
 _Said that sweet thing hadn't come a long_

Sonny returns, hovering in the doorway, uncertainty in his eyes. Hope, too. Rafael feels his lips twitch. The song choice was deliberate – had to be. It's written all over Sonny’s face.

“I wanted… can I kiss you?” he asks softly, a flush high on his cheeks. Rafael hesitates for a moment too long.

“I don’t – maybe this isn’t such a good –”

“It’s a good idea,” he interrupts and Sonny snaps his mouth closed, waiting for an explanation. Rafael sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“You know… there are lots of homosexual men in New York who don’t have high profile occupations.”

“I know.”

“They have… clubs and things. They socialize as openly as… well, as they can.”

“Raf, I _know._ I work in Vice for God’s sake.”

Sonny takes a step forward.

“What are you sayin’?”

_No more staying out late for me_   
_No more narrow escapes for me_   
_I've reached the I've reached the turning point in my life_   
_I've reached the turning point lord lord lord in my life_

The record plays on, filling the silence.

“I – I’m not rejecting this – you. I should be. This is a good idea with _someone who isn't me._ You have enough on your plate without worrying about fucking an ADA –”

“Didn’t ask to fuck you – I asked to kiss you.”

“Arguably, that’s more dangerous than just the fucking.”

There. He braces himself for the fallout now he’s said it.

“Your heart’s in it too, huh?” Sonny murmurs.

“I – it seems premature to say that beyond a doubt. I care about you – of course I care about you. I don’t… know you. _This_ you. What makes him tick, what to say to... to keep him here in the present or send him back over the sea.”

“You could learn,” Sonny replies earnestly. “I’d… I’d try to let you.”

“What are _you_ saying?” Rafael asks, turning the question around. They are standing close now; they’ve moved and he hadn’t noticed it. He can feel Sonny’s breath on his face.

“Bein’ with you before was… different. It felt… like you turned the noise down on everythin'. Lowered the lights. It was calm.”

It's the first time Rafael can remember anyone telling him that sex with him is 'calm.' He isn’t sure how to reply, so he doesn’t. Sonny keeps talking.

“Calm’s in pretty short supply in my life, but it’s good for me. It’s really, really good for me.”

“It’s good for me too.”

The admission is involuntary but Sonny seizes upon it, eyes lighting up.

“So, are we – can I…?”

“Why don't you try it and see.”

It feels good. Warm. Calm, even, sure. Why not? Sonny kisses gently and with great care, not going so far as to deepen it into anything raunchy. He just keeps it light and languid until time takes on the same ambiguous pace, stretching into an impossible vagueness broken only by the record reaching its end. They separate, short of breath, dazed. The air smells richly of cheese, tomato, and spices.

“I uh… sorry. Lost track, there,” Sonny struggles to speak, visibly shaken by the quiet intensity of the moment.

“I’ll – the record.”

Rafael gestures behind him, escaping the kitchen to turn the disc over. His hands shake so badly that he finds he can’t place the needle down correctly. Fearing scratching the vinyl, he elects to turn the machine off entirely. It has served its purpose, after all, communicating when Sonny could not.

_Hell, when both of us couldn’t. Neither of us was making much headway._

“Dinner’s ready.”

Sonny’s voice wavers a bit. It's throatier than usual. He looks great, bathed in the glow of the light over the stove, lips red and wet, hair mussed.

 _Go ahead,_ says the other little voice – not that of conscience. It's the same voice that has driven Rafael’s ambition all his life. _Be selfish._

“Dinner can wait,” he breathes, reaching up to pull his tie loose from his neck, placing it carefully on the sideboard. His cuff-links follow in short order. Sonny watches, transfixed, until Rafael has his shirt open in a deep 'v'.

“Make sure the oven’s off. Then come here.”

Sonny fumbles with the dial, making sure everything is, indeed, safely turned off. He crosses the floor at a snail’s pace, not quite wary, but clearly afraid to jeopardize whatever mood has tentatively built up between them.

“Have you ever made love?”

Sonny opens his mouth to reply but Rafael continues.

“Not had sex. Not fucked. Made love… felt the… the vibrations in your soul connect with someone else’s. Shared their... cosmic energy.”

Even as his mouth moves, he feels more than a little ridiculous, but the effect his words are having on Sonny makes the tinge of discomfort worthwhile.

“You don’t believe in that stuff,” Sonny ventures. “Heck, _I_ don’t believe in that stuff.”

“Look at all the people who do, though. A whole generation of young men and women… there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere.”

Rafael says it against Sonny’s lips, scarcely talking above a whisper, then cranes his neck up and opens his mouth for a kiss. Sonny meets him halfway, shyly probing with his tongue.

“You wanna try it?” the detective asks. He sounds awestruck. “Makin’ love?”

Rafael kisses him again, in nonverbal approval.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this took a turn to Feels Junction, since eventually Barba's crippling emotional constipation had to give. 
> 
> I know where this fic is going and it should be wrapped up in 1-2 chapters, one of which will be mostly smut.
> 
> After that... I have an idea for a 1980s Barisi established relationship fic (with the development of an actual 1980s-era sex crime task force, even, so we can finally get Carisi off the Vice Squad.) I'd be lying if I said the idea didn't intrigue me. Middle aged Barisi meets 1980s ridiculousness seems kind of fantastic.
> 
> As usual, if there's typos I'll catch them later - I'm halfway out the door to take the dog out. I'm doing my best, y'all.
> 
> ALSO: Trigger warning for one panic attack during sex due to poor communication (that immediately stops - no consent is breached once distress is indicated.) While I feel like the problems could be avoided with 2010s-era Barisi, 1970s-era Barisi is not privy to the same concepts of explicit consent dialogue so there's more guesswork, and guesswork + ptsd + personal issues can = rough time. But there is no ill-intent and as soon as discomfort is shown, appropriate action is taken. Just thought I'd warn you all.

* * *

“Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

“Bed or couch?”

“Why not the floor? You got that Jesus-big bearskin rug just sittin’ there.”

“And you want to fuck on it?”

“You’re tellin’ me you haven’t?”

Sonny’s look of disbelief breaks into a grin, some of the nervous tension dissipating.

“Come on. You can’t own somethin’ like that just to waste it.”

“Okay, okay,” Rafael replies. “But I’m putting down a towel.”

“Spoilsport,” Sonny laughs, already halfway out of his shirt. Honestly, he looks good – better than he’s been since they met up again. A pang of worry spoils the moment. Rafael’s not ignorant of his own shortcomings. Sex he can do – good sex – but the emotional component is uncharted territory. There’s no denying a large part of him is curious about it – how it would feel to let someone, to let Sonny, into his life that way.

“You sure about this?” he asks belatedly, watching Carisi peel his jeans off and kick them into the corner. The bastard’s going commando. There’s no way he didn’t plan this.

“I came here hopin’ to get off,” he confirms, as if reading the older man’s mind.

“Right. Okay, I guess. Shit… let’s uh…”

“You flustered, counsellor? That’s not like you.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, too quickly. “Rough day at work, is all.”

It’s not a lie.

“How do you want it?” he asks.

At this, Sonny blushes and ducks his head.

“Just get the towel. One step at a time.”

Fair enough.

It’s weird. Anxiety before sex like this is pretty foreign, but there’s no denying the coil of it tightening in his chest.

 _You had to go and throw around ‘making love.’ You reap what you sew,_ Rafael scolds himself. He wants it that way – slow and tender – wants to watch Sonny fall apart and – and what? _You can’t put him back together again. Even if you could, it’s not your place. His life is his own. Stop kidding yourself. You don’t do this shit for a reason._

He’s half-formulated an excuse to call it off when he gets back into the room, towel in hand, and damn near has a heart attack. Sonny’s got – he’s –

“Fuck,” he breathes shakily. “You’re – I didn’t expect –”

Sonny stiffens, looking over his shoulder almost guiltily, seemingly oblivious to how good he looks with three fingers in his ass.

“This okay?” he asks hoarsely. “I just – I can stop if you wa–”

“No, what are you, crazy? You look incredible.”

Rafael tosses the towel onto the floor and takes a seat on the couch.

“Go on, let me see you,” he prompts. Sonny blushes to the tips of his ears. Slowly, he starts fucking himself on his fingers, opening himself up. There’s no way in hell he’d gone from zero to three in the time it took Barba to get a towel – the realization hits him like a lightning strike to the dick. He’d come here slick. Stretched. He’d wanted it all the time he’d stood there at the stove, making dinner for the both of them.

“I’m ready when you are,” Sonny says, breaking him out of the daze he’s been sitting in, glassy-eyed, rubbing his cock through his pants.

He expects him to take it on all-fours, but he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Sonny wants to make love, wants it face-to-face, and Rafael doesn’t have it in him to refuse.

He doesn’t need more than to slick himself up with the remaining contents of a tube the detective produces from somewhere and then he’s sliding home, the towel bunched up awkwardly under his kneecaps, lean, muscled thighs bracketing his waist. Sonny cups his jaw, pulls him in for a kiss, and his worries dissolve into nothingness.

He can feel Sonny shaking beneath him, and when he pulls back he sees tears shining in his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, head tilted back against the rug, “Fuck – that feels incredible.”

He looks beautiful. He looks wrecked. Something in the juxtaposition makes Rafael suspicious.

“It’s not your first time, is it?”

It can’t be – he knew to come prepared, cleaned out, stretched, slick –

“I mean, I’ve used my fingers before but – lettin’ someone do it – I never had the nerve. I don’t like bein’ pinned down by people I don’t know so well. I was a little scared you’d stick it in and I’d sock you in the jaw by accident.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”

Sonny wriggles, trying to get Rafael moving again, and he thrusts in response – he can’t not when its pure animal instinct. Sonny sobs out something like ‘so good’ or ‘too good’ and tries to give the ADA a hickey that he fortunately leans away from.

“Nowhere above the collar,” he reminds him. “Gotta be at the office tomorrow.”

“Mm…” Sonny murmurs, but acquiesces, slipping his mouth over to suck at his collar bone instead.

It’s slow – slower than Rafael typically likes it – but when he tries to speed up, Sonny changes the pace. Finding their groove together, when they get it right, when it’s languid and intense, makes him feel a bit like he’s bracing for something. Like the ground’s about to fall out from beneath them both.

“Fuck,” Sonny hisses. “Don’t let go of me. I need it like this – I need you to ground me –”

The detective is into it – he’s really into it – pinching his own nipples and breathing hard and fast. Rafael’s own breathing is shallow. The kissing is good – he stops thinking when they’re kissing – but then Sonny has to go and start babbling again about how good he feels, how safe, and the moment’s broken.

 _This is for him,_ Rafael decides. _Doesn’t he deserve it? He goes to fight for his country while you stayed at home – he’s laughing – he’s happier than you’ve ever seen him. This is for him – you’ve been selfish enough._

Dismissing the thought of his own pleasure, he lets the mechanics of the act take over. He’s good at fucking – he’s good at everything. He’s been perfecting every skill he knows since the day he was born because he’s an instrument of his own will. _This is for him._ Success is a product first and foremost of belief in one’s own ability. The slow roll of his hips is unfamiliar – it lacks the impersonal staccato he’s comfortable with – but he’s able to charm his way through anything. That’s what winners do. _This is for him._ He’s a winner – he’s made his way on skills, on grit. _This is for him._ Sonny may have fought overseas but he’s been fighting battles all his life, fighting to be taken seriously – and he will be taken seriously sure as he paid for the rug beneath them with his own, hard-earned cash, sure as he split his palms with blisters every single step up the ladder to the top, and he’d do it again. _This is for him. This is for him. This is for him._

“… you okay? Hey – hey, stop a minute, would you?”

Rafael freezes. There’s a note of concern in Sonny’s voice – he’s sitting up on his elbows, trying to look him in the eye, only – he can’t. He can’t let Sonny see him when his eyes are full of secret things he doesn’t ever share.

“It’s like you’re not all here,” the veteran notes warily. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

 _I’m fine,_ Rafael wants to say, tries to. No words come out, just a tight, pained sound in the back of his throat.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey – c’mere,” Sonny pulls back – Rafael barely feels it when his wilting cock slides out of the detective’s greased hole. The cop is all hands and arms, gathering him up, holding him close. Rafael’s own arms wrap around him instinctively. He squeezes hard.

Something happens, then, that he doesn’t expect. Sonny doesn’t either, if his surprised ‘are you –?’ is any indication, but he takes it in stride, letting his hands come up to the ADA’s hair, petting him softly.

“You can cry,” he says quietly. There’s no judgement in it. It’s the sincerest thing Rafael’s ever heard and something in him ruptures and the slow trickle becomes a flood and he is washed away by it, eroded down to something small and frightened, unable to do anything but weep for the first time since he was a child.

“Shh, shh, shh.”

Sonny’s so good – he’s warm and gentle and his voice is soothing as the lapping of waves on the shore.

“Go on, Lord knows I’ve cried on you enough that you deserve to get a few tears on me. That’s it… Shh…”

“It’s too much. I thought – I can’t do this – I’m not a good person.”

Barba scarcely recognizes his own voice, twisted and high, reedy, frantic. Sonny clicks his tongue at him.

“Course you are. You’re an asshole but you’ve got a heart of gold.”

He tries to laugh at that but it just comes out as a shaky sob.

“Cold feet... I’m mortified,” he manages, hiding his face in Sonny’s shoulder. The detective strokes his back lightly with the tips of his fingers.

“Used to be my nightmares were so bad I’d shit myself. Coupla times after Lisa and I moved in together, even. First time, I was so humiliated I hid in the can for an hour. When I came out, she’d changed the bed and I felt even worse for havin’ made her do it. In the kitchen I found her – she’d made me a cup of tea, and you know what she said? ‘Shit happens.’ Hand on heart, that is what she said. So, you know what? Shit happens, Raf. It’s okay.”

“No – I _can’t do this.”_

“So, we won’t,” Sonny shrugs. “If you don’t want it, I don’t want it.”

“No, I mean – I can’t fix you.”

At that, the detective pulls back, turning the older man’s head to force eye-contact.

“Listen to me, alright? It is not your job to fix me. Shit, no wonder you were goin’ out of your mind. I can barely live with me half the time, but I’ve got to because I don’t have a choice. You have a full-time job reviewin’ all kinds of cases – homicides, rapes – and you’re tryin’ to put me back together on top of it? That’s nuts!”

“It’s –”

“No, seriously! Don’t do that shit. If not for yourself, then for me. I don’t _like it._ I know, I got problems. I’m fucked up and I probably will be for the long haul, if not for the rest of my life. I’ve got a better handle on it than I used to. I’ve got Paco to keep me from lyin’ in bed all day; I’ve got a job I love to do. I’ve got my folks, I’ve got Liv. I’ve got the homeless guy who compliments my ties every mornin’ on my way to work. If I do go downhill it’ll never be because I have a lack of support – and take me at my word when I say that that shit is _precious._ The homeless guy near my apartment? He’s got fuck all. Maybe if he went to the VA he could get some help – _maybe –_ but he’s too doped up to do anything. Some of those guys I served with – they came back worse off than me, and they went home to – to what? Race riots? Hate crimes? My life is far from perfect but it is sure as hell not your responsibility to feel sorry for me. You wanna help somebody – go volunteer at a soup kitchen. I don’t want you stickin’ your dick in my ass like it’s some kind of charitable donation.”

That’s sobering talk. The tightness in Barba’s chest abates some, the years of legal training kicking into gear. He takes a breath. Clears his throat. Sonny does him the service of looking away when he wipes his eyes on the back of his hand.

“It’s not – I wanted to fuck you. I still want to – and not out of pity,” he argues, when he’s coherent enough to do so.

“Good to know,” Sonny replies, “because let me tell you, the martyr complex doesn’t suit you.”

“Martyr comp– I don’t have a martyr complex!”

“Sure, you don’t. You just like the way it feels to work yourself to death. Look – I _get it,_ okay? And I’m not gonna judge you for it. If you need to feel like a hero to sleep at night, you do what you need to do. But you don’t need to prove yourself to me. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? What you want? I feel like we keep dancing around the same conversation and we never get anywhere. I’m career-oriented to a fault. I’m not going to apologize for that. I don’t do it to ‘feel like a hero’ – I do it because if I fuck up _at all,_ my ass is grass. Failure is not an option for me – if I let it be an option, I wouldn’t have made it to Harvard and I sure as hell wouldn’t be the ADA. I’m a damn good lawyer because of my work ethic and I’m not going to be guilted into feeling bad about it –”

“Who’s guilting you?”

“You’re trying to – to form something deeper than just sex with me – knowing that I will always put my career first, knowing that I’ve got enemies, knowing that they call me heartless and cold and selfish and that they’re not entirely wrong to criticize it, knowing that I’ve sacrificed more to get here than most people do in their life time and that if I had to do it, I’d sacrifice us, because relationships – homosexual relationships – are pretty much dead in the water where my lifestyle is concerned – tell me, where do I have you wrong?”

“I – nowhere. Only you haven’t said anythin’ more than describe the guy I feel good about bein’ with. I already know all those things about you; I’ve known it the whole time I’ve known you. I also know that you do it to protect yourself. You think I forgot all that stuff you told me about your father? I’m not an idiot. I get it – you’d be crazy not to act like you do. It’s the same reason I sleep with a knife under my pillow, in the off chance there’s VC hiding in my sock drawer. It still doesn’t stop me from only being able to get it up when I’m here with you and my mind’s not spinnin’ it’s wheels. It doesn’t stop me from feelin’ like… not like the old Sonny, but like I sort of know who he is. Like he’s my baby brother or somethin’. If you don’t want to – to be ‘together’ emotionally, I can respect that, but don’t insult both of us by sayin’ it’s because you’re the worst person who ever lived and I’m just too stupid to realize it.”

Rafael opens his mouth, but finds himself lost for words. He closes it again, stares at Sonny, then shakes his head.

“You ever think about becoming a lawyer?” he manages at last. Sonny’s face lights up like a million-watt bulb.

“Yeah, here I am, looks _and_ brains. You got lucky.”

He trails off, almost questioningly at that last part. His smile turns softer. Shy. Rafael is suddenly hyperaware of them both, fully nude, sitting on a beach towel on the floor in the dark. He feels drained, and in the absence of his panicked agitation, giddiness sets in.

“I don’t have the first idea of how the hell this is going to work,” he admits.

“That makes two of us.”

“Normally people make life-altering decisions with some kind of plan in mind.”

“Serve a few tours in the military and see how quickly plans turn to shit,” Sonny counters. “You do what you have to do on the fly to make it work. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t – we do what we have to do. If it all goes tits up, well, at least we can say we tried. Alright?”

“I… alright,” Rafael concedes. “It’ll probably be a disaster, but alright.”

“That’s the spirit. Hey, want a handjob?”

Barba blinks at him, caught off-guard by the non-sequitur.

 “What, now?”

“No, for Christmas. Of course, now.”

 “… why?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ all day about how good it’d feel to watch you cum. I sort of missed it last time – I was too busy rememberin’ what it was like to be more than half hard.”

“You’re not going to be disappointed? If we just jerk each other off, I mean?”

“Somehow I think I’ll live without your load in my ass, yeah.”

At that, Rafael snorts and shakes his head.

“Jesus, what happened to you? Good Catholic boy with a mouth like that.”

“You pick up all sorts of bad habits in the service. So… any takers? The offer’s on the table. We can beat off tonight, have a sleep, then figure everything out in the morning once we’ve got blood in our brains again.”

It is then that Barba notices the detective is still hard.

“Has that been there the whole time? I didn’t see it.”

“Wow, way to make a guy feel confident about his size.”

“Pfff – I didn’t mean – you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re oblivious in the sack.”

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.”

“I could put my tongue in your mouth instead, if you’d rather.”

Rafael rathers. He rathers very much indeed.


End file.
